


The Random Collection

by Jen (ConsultingWriters)



Series: Prompt Fills [5]
Category: Cloud Atlas - All Media Types, Cloud Atlas - David Mitchell, Marvel, Marvel (Movies), Original Work, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Developing Relationship, Humour, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pre-Slash, Slash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-09
Updated: 2015-11-17
Packaged: 2017-12-10 19:56:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 114
Words: 48,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/789557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConsultingWriters/pseuds/Jen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Due to popular demand: My tumblr fills, now moved onto AO3!</p><p>This collection pertains to all fills that do not fit into other brackets in the series - multi-fandom, various pairings, including Skyfall fics. Please heed warnings as they pertain to each fill. </p><p>More fills can be found through the rest of my 'Prompt Fill' series. Enjoy!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> http://consultingwriters.tumblr.com/ - This is the guilty tumblr. These fills are all mine (Jen) unless otherwise stated - Lex had a huge part to play in these fills. Feel free to have a glance, and throw more prompts at us.
> 
> My longer prompt fills (ie, those which have multiple parts), 00Q prompts, Sherlock prompts, and Bondlock prompts, can all be found in the rest of the series. I had to differenciate, or I'd lose track of what I'm doing!
> 
> Please see each fill for warnings. I have almost certainly forgotten to write in some warnings, in the melee. Please don't throw things at me, just remind me, and I'll pop them up.
> 
> Thank you kindly to everybody, especially those who have been supporting ConsultingWriters on tumblr, you guys are wonderful. Jen.

Natasha could half-sense that there was something amiss. It was nothing tangible; there was nothing out of place, nothing to hear or see. Instead there was just a heavy, irregular feeling in the air.

She had two guns pointed in Loki’s direction before the man had said a single word; he looked at them with undisguised amusement, eyebrow arched, acid eyes watching her closely.

“What the hell are you doing in here?” she asked roughly, not lowering her guns. Loki smiled, intensely slow, the expression crawling over his face incrementally.

“Said the spider,” he murmured; the tone threw Natasha back, memories of the wreckage of New York and the bodies left in the streets. The raw, sculpted anger of a damaged god; an exceptional degree of power, and too much pain.

She could understand that.

Loki had made no move to attack; he stood perfectly quietly, watching her with non-confrontational curiosity. His posture was relaxed, indicating no desire to harm; she lowered the weapons slowly, noting the gleam in the green.

He took two fluid steps towards her, stopped inches from her face. She betrayed no fear, if she felt any, and Loki betrayed nothing because he never did. It was easy to forget that the god could lie as easily as breathe. Perhaps easier.

“You’re supposed to be with your brother, in Asgard,” she pointed out, Loki’s breath tickling her face, smelling of something not Earthen. She felt the hiss of anger drawn from him, lifting her weapons instinctively.

His face contracted inwards, marring the usually flawless mask. “Thor is not my brother,” he snarled. “We will remain cordial for as long as you remember that.”

Natasha nodded guardedly, still watching every murmur from Loki; predators behaved similarly, mimicked their prey’s breathing patterns, became so inextricably linked that the attack became organic.

They both kept a caged awareness of the other. “What do you want?” she asked, slightly gentler than before; there was no gain from hostility.

Loki replaced the thin smile Natasha remembered, papering over the cracks from mentioning Thor.

“I believe we could be of use to one another,” he purred. Natasha looked him up and down, eyes narrowing, curious and intrigued. Loki thrummed with power, and she herself was not allied strongly; the Avengers were loosely formed still, her only commitment to Hawkeye. She knew what she risked by declining the god, and more importantly, what she stood to gain.

Her nod was unsurprising, and Loki quietly laughed.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I am so in love with your writing! It always brings a smile to my face when you appear on my dash, and goes a long way to make my day much better :) As for a prompt, I’d be the happiest fan in the world if you’d write a Tony/Thor where Thor somehow mistakes Tone for being the king of the world, and acts thereafter. Anyway, you’re awesome~! – cloudedcreation

“Man of metal,” Thor boomed as he stood, hammer in hand, arms wide.

Tony looked him up and down. He hadn’t expected to see Thor back for a while, not given the problems with his psychotic little brother; he was a surprisingly welcome sight. “And a good day to you, Rapunzel,” Tony retorted, enveloped in the kind of embrace that broke bones. “How’s home doing?”

“I do not wish to think on it. What matters have developed on your Earth?” Thor asked, in his usual, overly complex phraseology.

Tony grinned, turning back to his beach house with the expectation that Thor would follow. “Not much changed; I’m king of the known world, Tasha and Clint are finally shagging…”

Thor appeared to have stopped following. Tony turned around, raising an eyebrow. “You have gained regal status over the populace of this realm?” Thor asked curiously, carefully.

It was an opportunity waiting to happen. Tony really couldn’t be blamed for it.

“Yeah. Turns out if you’re nice to enough people, you can take over the world,” Tony said, without a trace of irony. “They decided I was the kind of guy they wanted in charge, and who can blame ‘em.”

Tony’s grin nearly cracked into outright laughter as Thor knelt in front of him, head bowed, showing respect to the leader of another realm; it was a nice little boost for the ego, having somebody kneel in front of you.

“King Tony…”

“I _like_ that,” Tony commented, before filtering. “I mean… arise, Thor. Feels weird calling you by your real name now. Is it a king thing, to get pretentious, or is that just you and me?”

“I am not yet a king,” Thor said, with a slightly modest inclination of his head. “I shall rule, one day, but…”

“Yeah yeah, with great power comes great responsibility, I know the drill,” Tony drawled, dismissing the conversation with a casual wave. “Want to come meet my queen?”

Thor’s eyes widened. “I would be truly honoured, to meet somebody of such importance to…”

“I get it,” Tony interjected, before the man started waxing lyrical on the importance of queens in the general royal hierarchy. Really, Tony wouldn’t put it past him.

He just hoped Pepper would be game enough to go along with the scam.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frobisher/Sixsmith - anon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. So. This was one of the harder things I’ve filled, as I’ve attempted absolute stylistic mimicry of Frobisher’s letters in Cloud Atlas (book, not film), while tilting it firmly towards their relationship. Set before the events of the book, intended to tie into canon as a ‘missing letter’, as it were.
> 
> Anybody who knows the book, and style, I would be immensely grateful if you could feed back on how I’ve done; difficult to accurately judge from this end. Thank you. Jen.

Sixsmith,

Atrocious day. Appears to be something of the norm when leaving you behind. Within a matter of hours am ankle-deep in metaphorical sewage, today in form of telegram from father and the untimely loss of the last of my finances to a rather gorgeous manuscript of Noyes’ _Contrapuntals_. More on that later. As to the telegram – am wanted at home, doubtless some worrying initiative from Mater, have ignored on principle.

Beginning to rather reconsider this whole debacle. I miss you, Sixsmith – try not to be an ass about my saying that, I am capable of some degree of sentimentality. Already looking forward to some form of response, albeit brief, given that you are doubtless stupendously overworked and still resolutely claiming to enjoy every moment of your self-enforced tedium. A simple observation, before you clamour out objections. Cannot imagine the monotonous twilight of a lab as compared to the bright glory of a day, no art or music or light. Terribly anaesthetised. Yet you appear contented, are excellent in the field by all accounts. To each their own, I say.

Feel like some infatuated fool, Sixsmith, in your persistent returns to my thoughts. Incandescent, immediate. Yes, I know, absurd and unnecessary, you will doubtless fret. I know, it was my decision to go. You understand though. Pure creativity requires stimulus. I also rather require a wage, given current situation. Have thoughts on that score, probable role as amanuensis, will explain further anon.

My apologies for this. Quite probably you will have no idea of how to receive a note like this, nor will I be able to adequately explain. Take what you will from it, dear Sixsmith, and kindly do not reference it further. I will doubtless consider my own hyperbolic infatuation something of a weakness, as all do in retrospect.

Am writing this on a bench, will post before I lose all bottle. So I leave you, Sixsmith, with a simple assurance – I am, quite emphatically, yours. Perhaps always shall be, to a greater or lesser extent. It is a strange and lovely thing, to find oneself quite so tied to another person. I shall cherish it always.

Take care, old boy. Perhaps we two shall meet again some time.

R.B Frobisher.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I love your posts ^ - ^ But…can I make a request? If I can, can it be one about Silva before China? Xxxx - slenderwantshugs

The agents were all worryingly similar, as human beings. Self-righteous bastards, with more muscle than intellect, and a sense of entitlement that M truly loathed; their arrogance seeped like poisoned gas down corridors, ready to strangle passers-by.

M didn’t sigh as she signed the paperwork, although it was tempting. Agent James Bond, officially licensed to kill, being awarded double-oh status. His ego – already a formidable entity – would doubtless now reach stratospheric proportions. If he continued in the same vein, he would need deflating, given some form of violent reality check before his arrogance cost lives.

The decision made sense to her, and she would defend it. Others would be livid, but that was irrelevant.

None angrier, it would seem, than agent Rodriguez.

“Cabron,” he swore violently, as he saw; he had been overlooked, once again. A double-oh position had opened, and had been given to James bloody Bond, a puerile idiot who could barely shoot straight. “Hijo de puta”.

He rapped insistently on M’s door, waiting for her to let him in. “I am the best field agent running,” he said immediately, before M had a chance to even address him. “I also have a larger skill set…”

“Agent, that is quite enough histrionics for one day,” M said calmly, expression merciless as she stared at Rodriguez. The agent knew full well that she would refuse to say another word until he’d calmed; he took a breath, simmering with anger, taking the seat opposite her, the desk an open chasm between them.

They stayed in silence, before Rodriguez asked again: “Why am I still being overlooked for double-oh status?” he asked clearly, simply. M watched him for a moment, the young man holding himself together out of pride.

“Double-oh agents require animal instinct, and field skills,” she said flatly. “You are an agent far better suited to infiltration, espionage in the classical sense of the word. Double-ohs are designed for hits, extraction of information, missions that are exceptionally high-risk. They are the ones who will go to any lengths. You would not. If it were your life in the balance, England would fall. I cannot allow that.”

“My loyalties…”

“Are unquestionable, but do not extend deeply enough,” she told him. “You are a survivor. Perhaps dangerously so. Useful, and necessary in MI6 – but not a double-oh. Now if you are quite finished questioning my ability to do my own job, I would advise leaving.”

“Yes,” he said, his voice low, almost a purr. The slight was understandable, perhaps. Would certainly never be forgotten, regardless. “My thanks, M.”

“Afternoon,” she said briskly, and didn’t watch him leave.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i know this isn’t for a fandom or anything but you’re a really (/REALLY/) amazing writer. can you write something for ‘little lady’ by mikill pane? b/c it really opened my eyes. - anon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First original work I’ve been prompted, thank you so much <3 Okay, so I’ve essentially written a companion piece to the song; hopefully, the general plot etc will be self-evident anyway. I’m playing with metaphor a lot, forgive me. Hope you enjoy, and thank you. Jen.

The colours reduce to a simple palette. Red, white, black. The bloodied highlights that splash against the monochrome, startling in intensity, devastating in immediacy.

Her skin is utterly white, papery, half-translucent and married with the blacker stains of dirt and pain, a devastating portrait. Fingers twitch towards the palm, a soft curve, the fingers themselves boned and angular, bulbous around the knuckles.

There is black shadowing her inner thighs, spreading cancerously around the indent marks of thin needles, arms, elbows, knees, the hit the only time the world can transcend monochrome and reach true _colour_.

The cold is a thread across her throat, a razor point of ice that is curiously familiar. The language, the world, are barely her own. Her words are broken here, cannot be understood.

A crash as the bag hits the ground, disgorging its contents, betraying the few secrets she dares to keep.

The pain in nothing unusual, but notable in the sudden intensity.

Dying is hard, doesn’t matter what anybody says. Even suicides are terrifying in the final, fractured seconds. The plummeting sensation of _knowing_ it is over, you have no choice any longer. Your sense of _self_ is nearly gone. The most acute feeling of helplessness in the world, dying.

For a transitory moment, she had believed in the possibility of an ending. Somebody had listened through the cloaked lies, could see _her_ , lingering under the tricolour shadows, the composite colours of the world she doesn’t want to inhabit.

The scrap, containing a handwritten number, lies next to a garish birthday card. Blue and pink and yellow and bright, so bright, too bright. Too obvious, too apparent. Her vision blurs as she watches it, traces the dips and swerves of letters, the font a bubbled shape that speaks of warmth and softness.

The red spills across her white skin and black clothes, and she dies on the day she lived.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Can you write some Eve/Bond fluff where Bond gets injured on a mission and Mallory puts Eve in charge of keeping an eye on him. - anon

Bond woke up with a dark groan of pain, irritation. “Fuck, that hurts,” he muttered, as he realised that literally every patch of his body was painful.

Superb. He remembered very little of the mission initially, the memories installing in fragments, until he reached the point of the gunshot; his thigh throbbed in remembrance, making Bond swear again. He didn’t curse, usually; exceptional pain was something of an anomaly.

“Morning starshine,” intoned an unreasonably bright voice somewhere above him; Bond let out another low, dramatic grown. “Oh, grow up.”

Bond opened his eyes, fixing on the elegant form of Miss Eve Moneypenny, settled in the chair next to his bed. Ankles crossed, texting fluidly, glancing up at Bond with mild amusement.

A grimace; to say Bond didn’t want her there would be grimly understating matters. It was humiliating, being laid up in bed in front of a beautiful woman who had entertained thoughts of taking to bed. “What d’you want?” he mumbled, batting a hand out at her crossly.

“I’m to look after you,” Eve announced, with a self-satisfied smirk. Bond tried to lift his head. Swore. “Oh, come on, Bond. There are worse options.”

Bond glared at her, narrowing his eyes. “Like who?” he asked petulantly, hand finding the button for morphine with a delighted smirk.

Eve raised an eyebrow eloquently. “Q?” she suggested; Bond winced. The young man would probably decide to poke his injuries, in a twisted form of revenge for all the weaponry Bond had managed to lose over the years.

“Point taken,” he said drily. “How long are you on babysitting duty for?”

Moneypenny shot him a look of utter derision; she was managing scorn far better than Bond, given that the latter was rather waylaid. “Babysitting. Your phrase, not mine. I’m just here to make sure you don’t spring out of – or murder anyone from – Medical,” she filled in. Bond continued to stare at her. “A week or so,” she completed.

Bond exploded. “They’re keeping me here for a week?!” he yelled, thrashing to try and get up before being knocked back by pain.

“Point and example,” Eve commented, snorting as she returned to her phone.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I think I may have read every one of your prompts. They are so much fun to read! Thank you for taking the time to write them all! Please could you write some 00m (Craig!Dench) where instead of Bond breaking into her flat, she breaks into his and searches through Bond’s things and maybe finds something surprising (no idea what) and then sexy times ensue? Thank you! Xx – anon

Bond pushed open the door, feeling utterly exhausted; it had been a long mission, and fuck it, he just wanted to relax, and get some rest.

One look in his flat made it perfectly clear that he wasn’t in for an easy night of it. The lights were on in his bedroom; he flicked on the living room light, to find none other than M, settled on his sofa.

“I’m assuming this isn’t a courtesy call?” he drawled; she sat back, drinking his whiskey with an unapologetic expression.

She was holding a small-calibre gun. Bond didn’t respond. “I could have you killed for this,” she commented, holding it between two fingers, other hand wrapped around the glass of whiskey. “Certainly not a Q-branch release; you’ve found your own, hmm?”

“My own acquisition,” Bond said calmly, unfazed. “I retrieved it from Zimbabwe. I assume you found my knife collection?”

“Quite extensive,” she replied, placing gun and glass on the table. “007, you may be an irresponsible bastard, but I was hoping you wouldn’t deliberately break rules.”

Bond smiled as leaned over her, M watching him with a mercilessly unfathomable expression as Bond’s arms caged her in. “How foolish,” he said, with a cocky smile, her expression still utterly closed off in a way that was genuinely impressive. Bond couldn’t manage that kind of disconnection himself, for god’s sake.

M wrapped a hand around his head, kissing him clinically. It was a peculiar experience, feeling somebody kiss him with no real heat or fire, but with the ice she embodied so absolutely.

Bond kissed back out of sheer curiosity, taken aback by being controlled sexually, for once. M was the kind of woman one didn’t push for dominance with, after all; she’d eat Bond alive, if he tried.

“Why?” Bond asked after a moment, Bond sinking against M’s.

She pulled him back, looked him up and down with something almost approaching curiosity. “It would seem the world knows James Bond, womaniser,” she said drily. “I merely wanted to see what all the fuss was about.”

Curiously, Bond couldn’t find it in himself to mind tremendously. “Cheeky,” he smirked, and kissed her again; it was a bizarre feeling, overall. She was quite unlike anybody he’d been close to before; she took no prisoners, and altogether felt different, by virtue of being twice the age of Bond’s usual conquests.

Surreal, certainly.

Bond just couldn’t bring himself to mind.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I didn’t know you wrote Molly otherwise I would’ve requested this ages ago: It’s from a gif set that I can’t seem to find but the premise was that Molly is the Judy Dench M’s daughter. Molly’s very happy to stay out of the lime light and not be a hassle but M feels that with all the Moriarty business that she needs a bodyguard so she assigns the best, 007, to look after her. Only older brother feelings from Bond please. – runemarks

“Bond, I have a slightly different form of assignment for you,” M said simply, pushing a file towards the agent. Bond picked it up, reading through the details, nodding his simple understanding.

Bodyguard duty. Not the most exciting of assignments, but certainly better than kicking back in the UK for the indefinite future. The woman in the photos looked sweet enough, was probably harmless.

“What’s the catch?” he asked calmly, closing the file and fixing M with a look. Thankfully, she didn’t try to insult his intelligence by denying that there was a catch.

M smiled thinly. “She’s my daughter.”

Fuck.

-

“I, erm…”

Molly Hooper was still having problems forming coherent sentences without abandoning them midway through. Bond was in shock; he had never imagined she would be _so little_ like M herself. Presumably took after her father, whoever he was.

Bond smiled benevolently, absentmindedly wondering if that would scare her even further.  “I’m only here because of the problems with James Moriarty,” Bond explained, tone calm and kind. “Given what appears to have happened with Sherlock Holmes…”

Molly’s smile became decidedly less certain, and Bond crooked an eyebrow. “With his…” she started, hands worrying in the air around her. “Death, I mean.”

Bond nodded slowly, a slight smile creeping over his face. She was very endearing, if a little skittish. “Precisely,” he said, deigning not to disclose the intelligence MI6 had acquired that indicated that Sherlock was very much alive. “Until we are certain that James Moriarty is not a threat, I will be keeping you from harm.”

Molly laughed a little. “I work in a morgue, not much danger there, unless there’s a zombie invasion,” she said, still giggling. Her face abruptly fell. “Not that I meant…”

“Don’t worry,” Bond laughed, growing more fond of her by the moment. “I know what you meant. This does, of course, mean that I’ll need to stay at your flat?”

Molly’s eyes widened, and she nodded, glancing up and down Bond’s body very unsubtly. “That’s…” she started, before clearing her throat. “That’s fine, no problem. I have the sofa, or…”

“That’ll do me nicely,” Bond interrupted, before she could bury herself in words again. “A pleasure to meet you, Ms Hooper,” he said, extending a hand towards her.

She blushed, shook his hand. “Call me Molly.”

\---

Molly was a very sweet, unassuming young woman. Sherlock was the most exciting thing to have happened in her life. In particular, that she had managed to help Sherlock stay alive, despite his apparent ‘suicide’ several months previously.

More impressively, she’d managed to keep that pertinent fact hidden from M herself, and Bond, who had been living with her for the past two months as a protective detail. They arrived in St Barts hospital in the mornings, and chatted while Molly worked, both parties entirely at home among cadavers.

The door opened, a young man scurrying in; Molly did a double-take, shock going off the scale as Bond kissed said young man, the latter fretting about time and work and something Molly couldn’t hear. “Molly, this is Q,” Bond said with a smile, gesturing to his lover.

Q smiled widely, extended a hand out to Molly. “A pleasure to meet you,” he said politely.

Molly let out a soft sigh, almost sad. “All the best ones are gay,” she said aloud, before her smile faded, suddenly realising what she’d said. “Oh. I mean, I… I didn’t mean that…”

“It’s fine,” Q said with a grin, glancing to Bond and back; her skittishness had not, apparently, been overstated. “Let’s just hope this Moriarty issue blows over, so I can have him back, hmm?"

Molly - to Q’s amusement – started honestly _apologising_ for having taken Bond away. “Don’t worry,” Bond interjected, talking the young woman out of another verbal dead-end. “The cactuses may go another day without my trying to kill them.”

“Cact _i_ , and they’re thriving,” Q corrected, rolling his eyes at Bond. Molly glanced between them, evidently a little confused, but honestly, they both seemed rather lovely, and she liked them a good deal.

Bond was the best guardian she could have possibly hoped for. He even feigned being her boyfriend, when they went down to the canteen; Molly, who had very few friends – the pathologists never did, everyone found their jobs a little creepy – suddenly became a talking point.

A mixed blessing, but that wasn’t a problem.

“Nice to meet you,” Molly managed, a coherent sentence, without any nervousness at all.

Q smirked, Bond winked and Molly blushed bright scarlet.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I love your writing. Could you do some 00Mallory? Please? Preferably something naughty … with suits, if that makes sense. - anon

“007?”

“M.”

“No names?”

“Really,” Bond purred, eyes bright and scarily alive. “I don’t think there’s much point.”

M raised an eyebrow, and nodded slightly. Bond looked as sublime as always, they both did; Mallory and Bond were such glorious parallels of one another, the agents and fighters, cloaked defensively in their smart tailoring, deflecting the undiscerning eye from what lingered under the skin.

The epitome of British ideals. M, the master of managing red tape and bureaucracy, a streak of righteous rebellion that he could justify, his accent precise, well-educated and just faintly pretentious. Bond, the loaded gun, the man hiding everything behind a pristine mask, the tumult beneath barely glimpsed.

It was glorious in how very forbidden it was. Two public school boys playing on the edges of acceptability; Bond’s breath was hot, M’s carrying mint, melded and clashing against one another.

The suit jackets crashed to the floor, crumpled awkwardly in twin heaps. Bond’s crisp, white shirt was popped open, the buttons carefully negotiated; Bond took joy working on M’s trousers, leaving the shirt intact, tie loose around M’s throat.

Bond’s mouth pressed open kisses along the ridges of M’s neck, teeth worrying around the junction of shoulder and neck, M and Bond pressed together, M’s desk boring a groove into Bond’s lower back.

M was the epitome of control. But then, so was Bond.

They were both at war with one another, while their egos mutually thrived on finding another person like themselves. It was gloriously selfish, yet utterly reciprocal. “I should introduce you to my tailor,” M noted with a slight cluck; Bond had a penchant for designers, not necessarily unique tailoring, however.

“Duly noted,” Bond growled, and kissed him again.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hi. I do not know if you enjoy Stony/Superhusbands but ..I want Q and Tony Stark work together (perhaps the international project). Bond and Q are together. And both pairs meet by accident (maybe on restaurant). If you don't like it, please ignore my prompt. - anon

“And hello there, gentlemen.”

Tony Stark could definitely drawl when he wanted to; American accents somewhat lent themselves to it. Bond quickly assessed him; wealth oozed from him, from the suit to the manicure. He knew the man too, couldn’t quite place him yet.

“Good evening, Tony,” Q said with quiet calm, standing to greet him properly. “This is my partner, James Bond.”

“And mine – this is Steve Rogers, also known as Captain America,” Tony said, with audible pride and a dash of arrogance. Bond remembered; while current affairs were hardly his speciality, this mission had included briefings on all staff in the New York division.

Tony Stark. Iron Man. And his partner, Captain Steve Rogers.

Bond gravitated towards the army man; they were far more likely to have something in common. Tony was more interested in the resident young genius, anyway; the pair of them had already started a dialogue on something or another containing far too many acronyms for Bond’s liking.

“Commander,” Steve said, with a nod of respect.

“Captain,” Bond returned; the pair did not smile, but contented themselves exchanging stories; Tony laughed too-loudly, Q smirked, their respective partners watching them with relatively proud expressions.

Steve and Bond were almost too similar; war veterans, both out of their time. Steve in the more literal sense, Bond is the sense that he had worked for Her Majesty’s Secret Service so much, so intensely, that the world had developed and he hadn’t been there.

Q and Tony, meanwhile, demonstrated that genius truly does prefer company.

“Come to Stark Tower, I’ll introduce you to the gang,” Tony offered; Bond had ordered his usual martini, Tony had decided he liked them. The evening had degenerated a little from that point. Tony – and weirdly, Q – were both fairly drunk.

“God yes,” Q mumbled. “If I’ve come all the way to the fucking States – which involved bloody flying, by the way – I’m definitely meeting the fucking Avengers.”

Tony laughed, nodded, clapped Q on the back. “A pleasure to meet you both,” Steve said to them both, with a somewhat formal nod.

“See you at the Tower!” Tony yelled at them, Q blowing him a rather uncharacteristic kiss that made Bond grip him a little more tightly. Q liked those two.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Could you write something about Bill Tanner, He's an awesome person, getting far to less attention from the fandom. just go crazy =) - anon

Tanner tended to oversee missions. He did not make executive decisions, nor did he make the calls. He oversaw everything. Q knew how to find information, M knew how to use, and Tanner just knew it. He was encyclopaedic, in that respect.

MI6 was difficult to get noticed by. Tanner was an exception. He had gone into the civil service at a young age; fresh out of university at twenty-one, he applied for a relatively dull secretarial position.

He had every intention of climbing, and he did.

Agents like Bond had the curious habit of finding themselves in places they shouldn’t have been, with information they shouldn’t have had. This had the effect of either getting them killed on the spot, or promoted.

Tanner had been listening to all of the wrong conversations, at all of the wrong times. He worked hard. He was present at every meeting, worked through every moment of the day and night.

M noticed him first.

It was relatively predictable; a man like that, showing up at every possible function. He had to have a purpose. Even if he didn’t have one, Tanner magically managed to come up with one.

It took one conversation for M to order a full investigation. She wanted his life, his habits, everything. She found every piece of it, explored it all personally, decided that a man of that type of diligence was probably better served elsewhere.

Thus, Tanner found himself playing a minor role in MI6 politics. He passed the basic tests with slightly frighteningly good colours, slid into the MI6 workings, and became indispensible within a week.

There was nothing he didn’t know. He knew the staff, he knew their habits. He knew when Bond would go offline, when M was too overworked to deal with the PM, what PR line to spin, what to say, what not to say. He could disappear entirely.

He disliked being asked to control anything. He had some active missions that he monitored, but usually under duress; he was better in other arenas. He knew every office romance. He knew every single dynamic. He knew who worked best with whom, and why, and when to push it and when not to.

M soon declined putting together teams for missions. She left it to Tanner. He made some bizarre combinations that worked better than anybody had anticipated, and MI6 upped his security detail.

Really, Head of Staff was just confirming the obvious. Tanner was still young, far too young – but M wanted a change of staff. She wanted the bright new future, and she would have it. Tanner was the only person she could feasibly envisage working with that kind of proximity.

“I’ve sourced a new Q-branch recruit,” Tanner told M formally, placing a file on her desk; she had always preferred hard copies. “To be quite frank, I think he could be Q within a few years. A very talented young man.”

‘Young man’ was certainly accurate, M mused. She glanced at the file; the dark-haired, bespectacled boy could barely be out of his teens.

She trusted Tanner. “Bring him in,” she said simply. Tanner smiled, and nodded.

Invisible, and indispensible.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello! First off I want to say that you are great writer and I love your work, you're so awesome!!! Anyways, I was wondering if you would do a crossover of The Tempest/Skyfall? Something with Q is Ariel and Bond is... I'm not sure tell you the truth. I just want it to be 00Q though, please. P.S. I just realizing that Ben has a nice voice when he sings in The Tempest. That's just a ramdom note on my part, you don't have to so anything with that. - anon

“Hell is empty, and all the devils are here,” Q murmured gently to himself, watching the screens run in front of him. Silva waited in one of the lower levels, smiling in a somewhat sickening way.

Q was unable to forget the presence, in the lower levels. Sycorax, with her ability to take forms, had manifested herself in a man named Silva. Q could feel her, the inexorable presence crawling out to him, waiting to take him again, trap him forever – or keep him.

He shuddered slightly. He needed to move, to escape; his thoughts tended upwards, to the air and the sky, with such an immediate reminder of a life he had escaped an eternity ago, back when he was far younger, when sprites and magic had been commonplace.

The world today was colder, darker – but he slid in, learned to live, memories of servitude making every moment of freedom more acute.

Now Sycorax was back. The blue-eyed hag, in a new form, as Ariel was; he had learned to be corporeal, she had learned to adapt her form entirely.

Q needed air. Real air, fire and water and earth and air. London was all concrete and stone, inflexible; for the first time in years he felt claustrophobic, trapped in by the cold, unflinching quiet and darkness. This was not his domain, this was not where he _belonged_.

Bond caught him on the roof. Q was standing on the edge, breathing deeply; the ends of his fingers were slightly translucent, the air making him feel vaguely dizzy. “…Q?” Bond asked, tone betraying the slightest hint of confusion. “It’s chaos down there, we need you. Silva hacked us…”

“Tricks of desperation,” Q muttered, with a slight eyeroll at the childishness of it all; his fingers became once again whole, the air whipping around his tangible form rather than straight through him. He had the power to make most of this disappear, if he needed, if he wanted.

Yet he had to keep his spiriting quiet, calm, unobserved; he had grown accustomed to vanishing, preferred to remain out of side.

He needed Sycorax – Silva – dead. A feat he could not manage on his own. “How did you do that, with your hands?” Bond asked, a shadow of danger in his tone that made Q smile slightly.

“I will explain, Bond. I need you to kill Silva for me, in return,” Q asked, without hesitation, without guile. He had forever been an honest spirit; he waited for Bond’s reply, a simple, uncomplicated nod.

Q smiled slightly, and disappeared.

“Shit. Q? _Q?_ ” Bond yelled, hand reaching to his Walther instinctively. In a heartbeat, Q had re-materialised, several feet away, his body translucent, almost swimming slightly as Bond watched him. “What the _fuck…?_ ”

“I’m Ariel,” Q told him, appearing centimetres from Bond in the blink of an eye. “I am a spirit, of fire and air. A rare form, in these times. To every eyeball else, I am merely Q – a young man with no past, with a simple present, and a predictable future. Not so.”

Bond looked approximately like somebody had hit him hard in the face. He reached out, brushing the intangible presence of Q’s arm; it felt odd, like the air had become denser. It wasn’t fully _there_.

“Ariel,” he murmured, watching Q. Bond’s mask visibly re-asserted itself, a type of calm control sliding into place. “Alright then. Well. I believe I have to fulfil my end of the bargain. It is good to meet you, Ariel.”

“That is my Bond,” Ariel breathed back, fingers brushing past Bond’s cheek, no warmth, no true sensation. Bond watched as Q’s body realigned, the sudden shock of seeing an opaque form, real and multi-dimensional. “We have work to do,” he said simply, and headed to the exit.

Bond watched him walk a few steps, wondering, considering. There was no way of understanding, so he didn’t try to.

He followed.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm in need of a Richard II/Skyfall crossover. modern day. =D - anon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So… Tanner is Bolingbroke (because of Hollow Crown/Rory Kinnear reasons) and Q speaks slightly pretentiously with decontextualised and slightly abortive Shakespeare which has been partially amended to fit Q’s usual syntax.
> 
> IE - I’ve been very, very pretentious, and wish I was sorry. Anybody who’s interested, it’s Act 3, Scene 2, in terms of the basic outlying structure and many of afore-mentioned bastardised quotes. I love Shakespeare, I truly do.

Q was known in Q-branch as having the poise of a king; he had a languid, almost foppish manner from time to time, a form of expression that was antiquated and carefully defined.

He staggered off a plane, looking quite substantially the worse for wear, practically collapsing on the runway. “I weep with joy to stand upon this Queendom once again,” he muttered to Bond; Bond had the odd, fleeting feeling Q may have been quoting something, but couldn’t tell what. “Where’s Tanner?”

Tanner was beginning to encroach on Q’s territory. Bond had seen Q’s computers searching; Bill Tanner, born at Bolingbroke Castle in Lincolnshire. Original degree in mathematics, with a secondary qualification in computer sciences.

The presence of a new Quartermaster had rendered Tanner unnecessary in many respects; he was no longer needed as a go-between through Q-branch and M, was relegated back to a simple Chief of Staff without much input in active missions.

“Back at MI6,” Bond said simply, helping support Q towards the waiting car; the boy was truly terrible with flight. “He is insinuating himself into your job, I have collated information.”

“That traitor,” Q growled, opening his laptop, finding the information Bond had for him; indisputable evidence of Tanner’s work, turning Q-branch employees against their leader. “This is a bloody blot on my pride, if nothing else. Look at them – they’re my _colleagues_. Dogs, easily won to fawn on any man.”

“Q, the important ones will remain loyal. You’re a good Quartermaster, they know that…”

“Try not to wound me with flatteries,” Q snapped. “There’s no comfort to be had. My branch are being turned to Tanner’s bent, and I can’t do a thing about it.”

“Defeatism isn’t your style,” Bond commented. “Don’t be ridiculous, Q. Speak to your branch, and try to avoid being a twat.”

Q blinked stupidly at him. “You’re nothing like anybody else,” he murmured. “Nobody talks to me honestly. I don’t quite know why.”

“Usually, because you wrap words in incomprehensible pretention, which makes life harder,” Bond pointed out; Q would either punch him, or laugh. Perhaps unexpectedly, Q opted for the latter.

He nodded, looked at the laptop. Tanner was manageable. The war was not yet lost, and he would never concede defeat, not to one like Tanner. He was the Quartermaster, would remain as such; this could not be removed from him.

Bond’s quiet support kept him going, an immovable presence. “Thank you,” he said quietly, precisely, and Bond just smirked. Q could have an army, if he only deigned to ask.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Doctor regenerates into a woman and River does the same but into a man. Then they visit Q and 221.

The knock on the door elicited a vague, bored sigh. Sherlock waved in its general direction as though it would make the faintest difference to it opening; naturally, given John being in the same room, it actually _did_.

The woman who tumbled into the room stood up a half-second later, looking horrendously confused at everything in the world. “River, I _told_ you,” he said delightedly. “Sherlock Holmes. There you go. Genuine Sherlock Holmes. And John Watson.”

Sherlock blinked languidly. “You’re not here on a case,” he stated simply; the strange woman clapped delightedly, wheeling around to her very silent companion. “You are also walking in the manner of one unaccustomed to one’s own dimensions. No hospital trademarks, no sense that you are anything other than sane, albeit peculiar. Your expression now indicates that you have been seeking me out, but are not interested in employing me. Given the laws that state I must eliminate the impossible, I can only assume that you have – in some way – exchanged bodies.”

“Looks about right,” a young man added mildly, head in his laptop; he twisted the screen around to Sherlock, who nodded. The young man glanced them up and down. “You must be the Doctor,” he directed, at the man in the doorway.

The Doctor glanced them up and down, shaking his head as Sherlock interrupted: “No,” he said quietly. “She is.”

“And who’re you?” the Doctor said, glancing at the young man curiously; the other man next to him, a blonde, muscled man, leaned closer to him in a way that was all protective instinct and strength.

The man smiled cockily. “Q,” he said simply.

The Doctor blinked. “Which one?”

Q rolled his eyes, glancing to Bond. “Which one do you think?” he asked mildly, while Sherlock snorted into his cup of coffee, and John just looked faintly confused at the whole proceedings. River, meanwhile, was sulkily exploring the parameters of her very _male_ body, not quite sure she liked it after such a long while with excellent cleavage.

“2013,” the Doctor said abruptly. “ _Oh_. You’re _that_ Q. Which means you must be…”

“Bond. James Bond,” Bond replied.

River’s jaw dropped, the Doctor gave a sudden yell of delight. “Sherlock Holmes _and_ James Bond _and_ Q. This is the _best day ever_.”

John rolled his eyes, feeling faintly put-out, and went to make tea.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I know you mostly do 00Q prompts, but can you do a Harry Potter one this time? I’m thinking along the lines of, Dudley gets teased in kindergarten and throughout primary school about his weight, and as a result has lower self-esteem than in the books. So he’s nicer to Harry, and maybe brings out the protectiveness in Harry in their childhood? And the Dursleys just treat Harry better? I dunno, do whatever you want with the ending :) – anon

Harry Potter would have had an entirely miserable time living with the Dursleys, were it not for his brother.

Dudley Dursley was a large child, and had always been thus. While Harry’s Uncle Vernon boasted proudly that he was _strapping_ , and _big-boned_ , and _not some nancy boy_ , Dudley himself struggled. His peers did not take so well to a ‘strapping’ young lad, and found it infinitely more amusing to make the boy’s life hell.

Harry was a gangly, uncoordinated kid himself, not to mention being distinctly _odd_. He and Dudley quickly found themselves with a great deal in common.

Uncle Vernon, and Aunt Petunia, were distraught. _Our little boy_ , Aunt Petunia would weep, dragging Dudley away from anything near to Harry. _Corrupted_.

A six-year-old Harry found it all a little bit strange. Dudley just wanted his friend back; a distraught Dudley was too much for the Dursleys to bear. They let Dudley and Harry remain friends, all the while making it clear that Harry was in no sense somebody to emulate. In fact, they would really rather prefer it if Dudley found somebody _better_ to be friends with.

Dudley obstreperously stayed by Harry, in the resilient Dursley way that Uncle Vernon had instilled in him since earliest childhood.

The letter, of course, changed everything.

The Dursleys were adamant that Harry would not to the _freak school_ , to learn those _abnormal tricks_. Dudley and Harry alike found it all strange, didn’t understand why Dudley was off to Smeltings, while Harry was being bundled about the worst schools possible, and his post was being kept hidden.

Their family were being Odd, and neither boy liked it.

The letters streamed in through doors and windows and the chimney and the gaps in the floorboards, as far as anybody could work out. They were everywhere.

Harry was immediately bundled into the cupboard under the stairs, barred from any of them, forbidden from seeing the content of the letters that were all addressed to _him_.

Until, that was, Dudley slid one under his door.

“Thanks,” Harry whispered out to him.

Dudley didn’t answer; he had always been monosyllabic, and now just stood guard at the cupboard door, as though facing off some unseen, terrible foe. Harry slid open the letter, reading the content with shock, with awe.

They didn’t want him going. They drove the whole family to the middle of nowhere, Dudley staying up to celebrate Harry turning eleven, both boys yelling with sheer terror as there was a colossal banging, and somebody knocked the whole door down.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I know you probably have a huge backup and I’m sorry if it’s a bother, but could you do Q meeting Peter Parker? I don’t know, they seem like they would both get along really well. If you choose to take it, thanks! – anon

Q glanced over the young man in the doorway, curious. He was standing with acquired awkwardness, intermittently reaching up as though to push up glasses that weren’t there.

“I was told to come down here?” he said, watching Q, camera slung around his neck, biting the inside of his cheek.

A small smirk. “Peter Parker, I’m guessing,” Q said aloud, beckoning the kid in. “I’m Q. So. Bitten by a spider.”

Peter smiled slightly, shrugged lopsidedly. Q raised an eyebrow, and knocked his mug off the table.

The reflex was blindingly fast; a hand shot out, arresting the fall, replacing the mug back on the table while Q watched with distinct, delighted interest. “Superb,” he murmured, as Peter stood back a little, running a hand through his hair embarrassedly. “Tell me everything.”

Q listened, wholly rapt with attention. Peter explained in technical terms, to Q’s satisfaction, easily conversant with the concepts of mutation and rates of change. They bandied about questions and options and ideas for a while; Peter was in the UK on a school trip, had gone off-radar to find MI6 specialists. Q had heard on the grapevine, and was simply intrigued.

Nothing more than a teenager, in the wrong place, at the wrong time; clearly, he was using his newfound skills well. Definite intelligence – prodigious intelligence, in fact – and the sense to utilise what he had. The spider venom needed monitoring; something of that potency could easily be weaponised.

Medical ushered the boy off after a while, analysed every inch of him, sent the results through to Q – who was, in a word, _fascinated_. He spent every second, before Peter returned to Q-branch, looking through the scans.

If the UK could access the spider venom, they could have agents, all with the reflexes, speed, dexterity of spiders. The US government had only minimal idea of Peter’s condition – SHIELD were involved, but they worked independently – which gave Q a unique opportunity.

“Bond, I believe we have a new mission for you,” he said calmly, sending through the mission spec to M as he spoke. “Report to me asap, if you would.”

Peter appeared in the doorway, smiling uncomfortably. Q settled back, his own smile an easy lie. “Welcome back,” he said calmly, and imagined James Bond, with the traits of a spider.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> would it be possible to have a The Hour/Skyfall crossover? Q & Freddie Lyon somehow end up switching places. What happens is up to you.

The issues with looking identical were mostly just in person terms; being vaguely confused from time to time, even their own _parents_ getting confused. They both had pretty dreadful dress senses, but unique in their own ways.

Q had made the simple, stupid mistake of wearing contact lenses. It was experiment, it really was, and he hadn’t expected it to end with he and Freddie being confused yet again – perhaps fatally, this time.

Freddie was bundled into a car and handed a laptop, people speaking to him far too quickly, utterly and ridiculously confusing. He tried to tell them the truth, but literally couldn’t get a damn word in edgeways with everybody frantically speaking at him. “I don’t…”

He was taken through security, trying to tell people that _I’m Freddie, Freddie Lyons_ only to get told that his name was supposed to be top-secret, so he should really stop calling it out over MI6 HQ, and Freddie angrily tried to fight back only to get directed into an oversized room with banks of computers, and wondered briefly where in the hell his brother was.

-

Q was having an easier, and a harder, time of it.

Of course, Freddie had been tangled with some bad sorts, in pursuit of the truths that came with reporting. Q had only known small amounts about Freddie’s troubles, but knew enough to know that he was – by extension – in trouble himself.

They really didn’t want to hear that he wasn’t Freddie. Nobody bought it.

Q steeled himself, and hit his alarm.

-

There were sirens blaring all the way over MI6, and Freddie didn’t have the faintest idea why, or how to make it stop. Not to mention that everybody was staring at him, and he was looking at screens with utter confusion, trying to communicate to _somebody_ that this was a cockup.

“You’re not Q,” a voice said coldly.

Freddie turned, feeling horrendously grateful. He had never met Bond, but knew him of course; Q never damn well shut up about him. “Correct,” he said, looking very harassed. “I’m Freddie, Q’s twin. Now can you _please_ get me out of here?” he asked, almost imperiously.

Bond gritted his teeth, tugged Freddie out the room. “Now, where in the hell is Q?” he asked, rolling his eyes as he connected the dots, the sirens still blaring. “Oh, bloody _brilliant_ ,” he muttered, and set Q’s minions onto finding the damn man.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> would it be possible to have a QXMoriarty fic? fluffy, angsty, sexy i dont mind it is up you the author <3 thank you – anon

Q purred as he pressed his body closer to the other man, Moriarty giggling in a lightly crazed way, kissing Q with a messy passion that suited them both quite entirely.

A light moan from Moriarty, a gentle growl from Q.

They were consulting criminals, and sublimely so; worlds danced, everything spun on its axis for them. They were magic, science. They were _everything_. Between the pair of them, they had more money than any sane human should, a million different missions as people called upon them for their freedoms and futures.

“Another assassination request,” Q called, typing quickly, rolling shoulders with a shift of lean muscle as Moriarty’s hands gently massaged him.

Moriarty hummed delightedly, skating a hand across Q’s shoulder, down his arm. “Mmn, I’ll get Sebby onto it,” he trilled, abruptly biting on Q’s ear, making him gasp and groan in equal measure. “Fancy a fuck?”

“Your manners are appalling, as ever,” Q whined, almost petulant, letting Moriarty run a possessive hand over his body. “Shan’t, I’m busy.”

A sharp hit to the side of his head; Q let out a slight gasp of pain, carefully continuing to watch his screen, keeping his breath steady. Moriarty was unstable, he knew that, he _knew_ that, but it was okay. It had to be okay, because he had _left MI6_ for the man; he couldn’t regret it now, not at this stage.

Moriarty kissed him again. A hand laced through Q’s hair, tugged his head backwards to expose his throat, bit down on the exposed flesh. “Fuck,” Q gasped, fingers falling slack. Jim was in one of _those_ moods. Nothing would deter him now.

Thus Q turned away, twisted in his chair to meet Moriarty’s lips. They kissed with an immediacy, desperation, anger and rage and lust and all primitive, angular emotions. They worked on the primal. It suited them.

It had to.

Moriarty’s hands groped, a little harder than Q liked, no mercy. That was fine, Q could reciprocate; he bit down on Moriarty’s bottom lip, letting blood trickle into his mouth, rusty and hot.

Flashes of pain like lightning, while they rubbed against one another, clothing falling and tearing and shredding into pieces with eloquent scratches and bites and blood.

Q moaned, and Moriarty giggled.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Could I request a Silva/Q with a side of Moriarty is Q’s older brother and he does not like anyone near his brother at all. Silva and Q are on some type of mission and Moriarty likes to pop up and bother Q once in a while, keep an eye on him. He sees how much Q likes Silva and is not having it. – nevermind-the-moon

Q smirked, Silva kissing the side of his neck, lips over the pulse points. “Come on, we need to move,” Q murmured, gasping at the feel of Silva against him, purring slightly. “Raoul…”

“Brother _dear_ ,” trilled a voice from behind them; Silva and Q both froze in absolute unison, for entirely different reasons.

Silva had a hand on his gun, and Q just sighed. “For god’s sake, what are you _doing_ here?” Q whined, twisting out of Silva’s grip, turning to face the man opposite.

Moriarty just grinned. “Hello there,” he said with a light smile, fingers waving eloquently. “Whatcha up to, Q?”

Q’s jaw set slightly, feeling immensely cross, reaching a hand out to Silva, calming him down. “Raoul, this is my brother,” Q said slowly, lips pressed together, raising an eyebrow at Moriarty. “Jim, what the _fuck_ are you doing here, you _know_ I’m working.”

“Yes, but a little birdy told me you aren’t alone,” Moriarty teased coyly, sliding closer to Q, glancing over Silva with a type of almost-disgust.

Silva raised an eyebrow. “I am Raoul Silva,” he said calmly, without confrontation.

Moriarty just smiled patronisingly back. “Sweetie, if I didn’t know who you are, you would have been dead long before your lips met my baby brother’s throat, hmm?” he said, tone dangerously playful, at absolute odds with the look of simply _murderous_ intent in his eyes.

Q sighed. “Jim. Piss off. Delicate mission.”

A serpentine head roll, eyes fixing on Q. Finally, _finally_ , Q understood; Jim would have waited, if it was just about Silva. No, there was far more going on here. “You’re the bomber,” Q said aloud. “Honestly, Jim, did you _have_ to? I had to take a bloody _plane_ to get out here, and it’s _your fault?!_ ”

Silva had his gun out so fast it was literally frightening. A millisecond later, a red dot appeared on his chest. “Play nicely,” Jim chided, twisting back to his brother, ignoring the gun at his temple with casual nonchalance. “Consider it my treat: you get to go home early, and nobody dies. Success!”

“Not a success, per se, but at least I know what you’re up to,” Q said, shaking his head a little. “Come on, Raoul. He’s harmless, really. If he didn’t like you, Seb would have killed you a while ago. Am I wrong?”

Moriarty grinned, kissing his baby brother lightly on the forehead. “Never are, precious. Now,” he said, turning on Silva, eyes utterly _blazing_. “My brother is harmed, and it will be the very final moment of your pitiful existence, do I make myself clear? I’ll see what the Chinese make of you, maybe.”

“Jim,” Q said sharply; Moriarty turned away, pouting, feigning sadness at his lost attempt to outright bully.

He sauntered off towards the door, blowing a kiss to the two left within. “Come on, Sebby. Work to do,” he trilled, shutting the door behind him.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I’d like to see some 00Q/Who crossover with The Silence, please <3 – virtualoutcast

It was amazing, how easy it was to be rendered breathless. For everything to abruptly stop, in a spasm of terror that could not be easily assuaged, never tempered.

For Q, it was something as simple, as fundamental, as a line on the back of his hand.

For Bond, it was the expression on Q’s face when he noticed.

“We are not alone,” Q murmured, eyes wide, staring at the line, glancing at Bond before quickly, desperately looking around.

Bond watched him with undisguised worry.

“Oh god,” he whispered, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the being, not daring to look at Bond. If he looked away, he would forget again, and he could not afford to forget.

Bond stepped abruptly forward. Q’s concentration darted off the thing, onto his partner. “Q?” Bond asked gently, jaw slightly tight, not quite understanding. “Are you alright?”

Q cocked his head, a slight smile playing in the corners of his mouth. “Why wouldn’t I be?” he asked brightly, pressing a soft kiss to Bond’s lips.

The line would not fade, merely because Q wished it to. Bond pulled Q’s wrist up to his face, made him look again; the same expression, horror and fear and panic, and Q glanced around and focused again, and started to talk very quickly. “Go, out of my office. Tell Torchwood we have a sighting of the Silence, he’ll know, Jack will know.”

Bond pulled Q with him, snapping his attention away from the creature again, back onto him. Q blinked with confusion. “What…?”

“The Silence,” Bond said simply; he wrenched Q out of his office, shutting the door behind. He had no idea what in the hell was going on, but while Q was behaving like this, he was intent on doing something practical. “We need to call Torchwood. Does that sound right?”

“But the Silence are only rumour…”

Bond took a breath, exhaled slowly. “You’re being odd, Q,” he told his lover frankly, and grabbed his mobile. “Captain Harkness? Ah, hello Ianto. Yes, it’s Q. He told me to call you concerning the Silence, although he seems to have no idea what’s going on.”

Q looked genuinely upset – before catching sight of his wrist again.

It was like bloody Groundhog day, Bond growled to himself, as Q’s eyes widened, and Jack Harkness wrenched the phone off his lover to speak to Bond directly. “We’re going to Torchwood,” Bond told Q, who just shook his head slightly.

“I’m not going to ask,” he muttered, and Bond looked heavenward. He was used to governments and agents and assassins. All of this alien business was a little too much, overall.

He sighed, deposited Q in the passenger seat of a rather lovely Aston Martin, and flattened the accelerator to get them to Cardiff.


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hey I was wondering if you could do some 00Moneypenny banter that ends up leading to more? Thanks :)

Bond glanced over Eve as she slid into the seat next to him, raising an eyebrow. “I thought you were supposed to warn me, if you’re going back on active duty,” he murmured to her, blue eyes slightly dilated already. Moneypenny was already very diverting company, after all.

She glanced him over, a small smile playing in the corners of her mouth, near enough assessing Bond as though she was the one with something to fear. “Consider yourself warned,” she told him sweetly, settling in. “Your paranoia knows no bounds. I only shot you a little.”

“Consider yourself lucky I didn’t shoot straight back,” Bond returned.

Eve laughed softly. “If you hadn’t been busy taking a swim, I’m certain you would have,” she acceded, hand moving to her bag. “Q-branch gave me some toys for you, you’re not to break them.”

Bond feigned immense disappointment at the sight of a simple gun. “Not the toys I was hoping for,” he murmured, implication making his voice exceptionally weighty, Eve shaking her head at the nerve of the man.

“Bond, you’re flirting.”

“Well noticed. You don’t mind it,” Bond told her; she raised an eyebrow in evident scepticism, watching Bond as he leaned in closer, lips inches from hers. “I expect you rather like having a double-oh agent here, somebody who can take care of your needs.”

Eve’s hand trailed towards Bond’s leg, fingers settling on the thigh. “Mr Bond, you’re a terrible influence.”

The hand crept upwards, coaxing Bond forward, hesitating for the slightest moment as he sought out any sign of objection. Eve couldn’t have objected if she’d tried, not with Bond’s heady scent in her nostrils, him looking at her like she was something to be devoured.

The kiss was harsh and demanding, no illusions; this was about sex, nothing more. Bodies and pleasure and pain, and both of them were so very adept at handling both.

The car disgorged them into a hotel, into a room, Bond slamming the door shut to pin Moneypenny against it; she kicked off her heels, wrenching Bond nearly off his feet to keep him closer, a strange unspoken battle for dominance, Eve’s hand confidently darting between Bond’s legs, as he targeted every sensitive nerve in her body, both making the other moan before finally reaching the bed, everything lost in a tangle of clothing.


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello! First of all I want to say that your amazing! Seriously, you’re more awesome than a double rainbow! I really loved your Marvel!007 fills. So could I perhaps request a prompt in which Q is Tony Stark’s son but Tony doesn’t know about him and finds out? – the-robinator

There are few things more alarming than Tony Stark turning up, in full Iron Man regalia, at two in the morning with the announcement that he was, in fact, the father of the man he was accosting.

Said man being Q. Quartermaster of MI6.

According to the various bits of data Tony had been collecting, also Tony’s illegitimate son. The last was a surprise to everybody concerned.

“How old were you?!” Q yelped, upon seeing the various bioscans and screens of DNA evidence; irrefutable, and questionable, and Stark was in his late thirties or early forties at best, and Q was twenty-four, which meant Q did not like maths very much in that moment.

Tony shrugged, shaking his head a little. “Sixteen,” he drawled. “Didn’t know you existed. Don’t take it personally. I had fun as a kid. I would have… if I’d known, but I didn’t, so don’t hold it against me…”

“You’re my father,” Q said slowly, looking Stark with mild distaste. “I… god, I used to want to know you so badly. How did you….?”

Another random shrug. “I have a friend. Friend of a friend. Told me that your mom, Rachel, she had moved back to the UK, popped out a kid. Dates were right. I tracked you, found your data…”

“How?”

Stark raised an eyebrow. “You know who I am, right?”

“Arrogance is hereditary. Bond will be delighted,” Q said drily. “Fuck. I mean,  _fuck_. I have a father. After twenty-four years, I have a father. Excellent. Well. I have no idea what the procedure is for this.”

Tony rolled his eyes. “Hell, you turned out British,” he moaned, before brightening a little. “Good excuse for a drink, I think. Yeah. A drink. Got anything?”

“Not really. Don’t drink.”

“Are you my kid or not? I mean,  _seriously_?” Tony whined. “Nothing? Gin? Brandy? Paraffin?”

Q rolled his eyes, growled a little. “I’ll ply you with surgical spirit if you’re really lucky,” he sniped, before standing, padding barefoot into his kitchen. “I can offer tea. A lot of tea.”

“Life of the party,” Tony muttered, still concealing a smirk as he followed.


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First and foremost, I absolutely adore your writing! A thing of beauty I assure you. Now, I’m a sucker for Holmes!Q as well as Holmescest, so if it’s not too much, can I please ask you for a Mycroft/Q story? Thank you. – anon

The Holmes boys did not do physical contact, as a rule. But Q was the exception He lay curled up in Mycroft’s arms, just as he had done as a child, Mycroft’s hand resting in unruly curls.

“I just… I’m sorry, look I shouldn’t be doing this.” Q managed, trying to wipe the tears from his eyes. “I just didn’t know where else to go, I can’t be in the flat - his stuff is still everywhere. And I can’t…”

“Hush,” Mycroft murmured, though not unkindly, as he continued to stroke his brother’s head. “It’s perfectly alright.”

“Yes, but you’d think… I mean you bloody well  _warned_  me about him, about everything,” Q choked, descending once again into broken sobs, body curling tighter against Mycroft. It was heart-wrenching to watch as Q’s eyes streamed behind his glasses, body rasping and clutching for breaths as he was wracked with a level of incomprehensible sorrow.

“True, though believe me Q, I have rarely wished so strongly to be wrong.” Mycroft assured him, placing a light kiss on Q’s forehead.

“I want that recorded.” Q laughed, spluttering slightly. He looked so very young. Much more like the boy who ran up to him with books to read, or begging him to teach him a new card trick. Hardly the Quartermaster of MI6. And yet there was a strength there, despite the pain, buried deep. It was a beautiful thing to behold.

Mycroft blinked, aware that Q was talking again. “… thank you though.”

“You are most welcome. Though Q, I must ask you, have you actually talked to 007 about any of it?” he asked, stroking a finger down his brother’s damp cheek.

“No,” Q admitted, after a moment’s hesitation. “I don’t, I don’t believe I wish to.”

Mycroft’s voice was calm, voice of reason. “That is the first foolish thing I have heard from you.”

Q shifted, his ranting gaining velocity by the second. “What would I say? Why were you fucking her, knowing that all of Q-branch was listening? Did you prefer the sound of your name moaned by a woman? What would that achieve?”

A small voice, somewhere at the back of Mycroft’s head, was screaming. “Give him a chance to explain himself, you have been his longest relationship in years Q. He might have incredibly good reasons.”

“Why do you always have to be right?” Q moaned, burying himself closer, twisting against Mycroft in a way that made the older man flinch.

“You ok?” Q asked, dimly aware of Mycroft’s discomfort. “I’m not too heavy..?”

“Q you would not be ‘too heavy’ if you consumed the entire contents of my pantry.” Mycroft chuckled. “You are far too skinny.”

“In which case, am I skewering you?” Q asked sarcastically. “My hipbones, James used to say…” he broke down once again. “Is that it? Was I just too bloody unattractive? He wanted someone with curves and…”

“I am certain that is not the case,” Mycroft assured him. “Or if so, the man must be blind.”

“Thanks,” Q sniffled, hand on Mycroft’s shoulder.

“I am serious Q, you are a beautiful man. One to be proud of, to treasure,” Mycroft assured him, stroking Q’s cheek.

Too close, the bloody close. Inches.

“My…”

“I’m sorry,” Mycroft found himself flushing for the first time since childhood. “I did not mean…”

Q was still looking curiously however, and Mycroft became increasingly aware of his own body betraying him.

Q’s deductive powers were not quite as developed as his siblings, but even he could see. More worryingly, while lying across Mycroft’s body, he could certainly feel.

Mycroft closed his eyes, as though in pain. “It is nothing, please…”

“How long?” Q interrupted. He still hadn’t moved, nor did he sound disgusted or indeed angry. That had to be a positive sign.

“I assure you, you were well past puberty.” Mycroft told him, Q nodding. “It is.. Q you are unlike any man I have ever known. Brilliant, truly…”

“Nowhere near Sherlock,” Q interrupted, eyes locked on Mycroft’s face.

“In your own way you far outstrip the pair of us,” Mycroft contradicted. “You are able to connect, you were so emotional, so… bright. You intrigued me. Then, of course, you are truly exquisite…” he trailed off. “I will completely understand if you wish to leave.

Q paused for a moment, and in that second, Mycroft had never so much coveted telepathy. Abruptly, warm lips pressed against his, perfect and full and wonderful. A suggestion of tongue against his bottom lip, too much to truly be called chaste. Then it was gone.

Mycroft opened his eyes to find Q looking almost as shocked as he did.

“Sorry, I just… I wondered,” Q managed, still almost straddling Mycroft now.

“And?”

“It’s different. It’s not… I mean I’m not panicking, not as I would have thought I might.” Q began. “… and I’m not disgusted, and I don’t hate you, but…”

“It is quite alright Q, I do not expect my feelings to be reciprocated. To be honest, your reaction is beyond what I might have hoped for,” Mycroft assured him, shifting out from under Q a little. “Talk to Bond. Don’t lose this chance.”

Q nodded slowly. “Might I stay here this evening? I don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”

“It’s fine, Q. Whatever else, I am still your brother.” Mycroft sighed, placing a light kiss to Q’s forehead. “And I will always be here, if you need me.”


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Love your fills enourmously - and would thus be delighted if you would write an Avengers Tony/Clint story x-overed with portal (the game). – anon

Tony dived through, scouting out the following section with the gun in hand.

The bloody Intergalactic Centre for Scientific Research. They had beamed him up – quite literally – out of the blue, along with his partner and placed him… here. Supposedly, some kind of testing unit for genii. They had got his name from a certain banished Asgardian prince with an axe to grind, and Tony had woken up here.

To be honest, Tony would have been rather flattered. Well, had failing not meant instant, and relatively painful, death – for himself, and his partner.

“Up there, on your left!” he called, beckoning Clint through the portal; Clint glanced around wildly, trying to locate the appropriate location. Tony rolled his eyes elaborately. “Your other left.”

“Helpful,” Clint muttered in sheer exasperation, finding the clear patch of wall. “It’s going to mean a jump.”

“Getting that,” Tony snapped, looking over the edge at the drop below. “Wait here any longer and people will be able to grate cheese with our arses.” He looked back at the sliding door, behind which the drones waited, red eyes blinking amicably.

“It’s your way with words,” Clint replied with a sarcastic smirk, closing one eye and aiming for the wall. Sure enough an opening appeared, rimmed with blue.

Tony winked up at him, before abruptly shooting the wall. “You love it,” he called back.

“No. I love managing to shut you up.”

“Later darling, later.” Tony replied with a wink. “You ready?”

“Yep.” Clint replied, and took a step into the abyss.


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi :) I don’t know if you have made prompt about 00Q and Torchwood. But i have one idea, maybe Q & 007 are together and they see Captain Jack, Q have worked with Torchwood and have been with Jact they have shagging but now Jack is wih Ianto , and Jack flirt with Q again, and James is jealous and after Jack flirt with James. Maybe a little of humor and fluff :) Thank You in Advance :) – tigrasevaddict

“ _Jack_?!”

The man in the trenchcoat turned, glancing Q up and down; he took a moment, before abruptly grinning. “My god, Q. Aren’t you a sight. How long’s it been?”

Q’s expression froze very slightly, only a little bit. “Canary Wharf,” he replied, almost apologetically. The man Jack had been walking with made only the slightest response, expression twisting for the shortest, sharpest of seconds. Q glossed over it, extending a hand towards the man instead. “Sorry, I’m Q. You must be Ianto. One of your lot for a year or two…”

“… before MI6 stole him,” Jack interjected, with a teasing growl. “You’re Quartermaster now, yes?”

Q raised an eyebrow. “Don’t pretend you don’t know that. How’s Tosh?”

“Excellent. And who, may I ask,” Jack purred, in a voice that made Q slightly want to punch him, “is this?”

Bond lazily extended his palm towards Jack, who looked like all his Christmases had come at once. “Every time,” Ianto muttered, his gentle Welsh accent showing through a touch. Honestly, Q was beginning to get rather fond of him already.

“Tell me about it,” he smirked at Ianto, as Jack and Bond pseudo-flirted with their respective partners watching, unfazed, given that both tended to do so with almost everybody and had never – to this day – managed to actually cheat. “So how’s the team, these days? I’ve been doing some remote monitoring of the Rift, and tell Tosh I am sorry, I may have been her intruder a month or so ago…”

“That was you?!” Ianto asked, sounding equal parts impressed and annoyed, his smile turning a little more confident. “She’s still not stopped talking about it.”

Q smiled back; Ianto was a charming man, and his  _eyes_. Jack had always had excellent taste – barring some of the lizard species Q had once known, which he just didn’t understand the aesthetic appeal of – and Ianto was no exception. “I work with computers,” Q said, gunning for modesty.

“Not quite as fun as aliens,” Ianto parried drily.

Both of them noticed, in tandem, that Bond and Jack had both stopped talking.

“Can I help you?” Ianto asked lightly.

Jack blinked. “You’re  _flirting_.”

Q and Ianto looked between Bond and Jack, before looking briefly at one another. “Sorry, what? The two most flirtatious men in the world are telling  _us_  off for flirting?” Q asked slowly, beginning to smirk a little. “Jealous?”

“Yes,” Bond and Jack said, in unison.

Q, and Ianto, simply laughed.


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James Bond is partnered up with Johnny English. Our dear Quartermaster just snickers in 007’s ear. – anon

“English? I’m with  _English_?!” Bond exclaimed, as the other agent picked at his gloves. He pulled off each finger, attempting a dapper removal – in the end they simply stuck to his hands and he was forced to pull them off with his teeth.

Bond could practically  _hear_  his Quartermaster grinning. “ _He’s got a successful track record 007,_ ” Q told him, managing to keep the laughter from his voice.

“The man’s a fool!” Bond hissed, watching as English adjusted his bowtie, pinging the elastic strap that held it to his neck.

 _“Oh come on Bond, it’s just an escort job,”_  Q replied, chuckling a little now.  _“You just need to get the girl from the plane and to her hotel.”_  Bond rolled his eyes. The daughter of the President of the United States was a charming girl, who happened to adore the pathetic excuse for a secret agent before him. She had requested English specifically, and Bond had been sent along to ensure minimal damage would occur.

“Are you certain you are ready for this?” English asked him, raising an eyebrow at Bond.

Bond took a breath and nodded, as they stood waiting for the plane. “Oddly enough? Yes.”

“Absolutely.” English agreed, trying to mimic Bond’s pose – badly – as the plane started to pull closer. “You know, I’ve seen your work, very good – very,  _very_  good.”

“Thank you,” Bond managed in flat disbelief, as English nodded approvingly.

Bond shut his eyes, as the man  _continued talking_. “Although if I might make one  _tiny_ suggestion…”

 _“Bond, PLEASE refrain from killing him,”_ Q warned, as Bond felt his knuckle crack at the tightness of the fist he’d formed.

He turned to face the other agent, who seemed unperturbed by the effect he was having. “If I might see your weapon?” English held out a hand, and Bond nearly chocked.

Bond looked at the man, seriously debating his relative sanity. “Excuse me?”

English appeared a little confused. “Your gun,” he said slowly, as though speaking to a child. He even did a bloody hand gesture. Bond gaped; however, he found himself handing over the item out of sheer bloody minded curiosity.

“Now you see, you hold it like  _so_ ,” English explained, tilting the gun a little and wiggingly his hips. “If I could just suggest you held it  _this_  way… oh my goodness.” He had pulled the trigger, gun facing directly at a line of oncoming American diplomats. Bond dived, knocking them both down to the floor.

Nothing happened.

Q was downright  _cackling_  in his ear as Bond closed his eyes once again.

“Imprinted to my palm?” he asked, as English sprang up, dusting himself off.

 _“I was tempted to make a little ‘bang’ sign appear if someone else tried to use it,”_  Q laughed, as Bond stood slowly.

“Your death, Q, will be slow and painful.” Bond told him, as the girl appeared at the door of the plane.

 _“I love you too Bond,”_ Q replied, trying to regain some decorum.  _“Good luck 007.”_

“Oh, fuck off.”


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So Jen, I saw you wrote about Marvel fandom, I think it was about Stony…but…would you be so nice to write some Thorki please??? – anon

—-

Dejection was written in every line of the young man’s body, the deflation of somebody who had survived, would continue surviving, but simply didn’t  _want_  to.

Anybody who believed him could only be classed as endearingly stupid.

Thor knew. He had always known Loki better than any other; perhaps it explained the anger, the resentment. Loki, who revelled in his own loneliness and rejection, used it to justify and explain, carefully wrought his life in a pattern of absolute isolation.

Of course, Thor did not fit with that image. Loki wanted to believe that he could never be ‘known’, that his brother had been perhaps the  _most_  ignorant of them all. The insults were predictable and empty, the loose petulancies of a child who wanted to be coddled.

Captivity suited Loki ill, and it was obvious. His entire being was falling to pieces, incrementally.

Only, Loki could not be broken so easily.

Only, Thor had always known how well Loki could orchestrate chaos.

“You are lying, brother,” Thor told him, the wrong side of sheet glass, hand flat against it while Loki watched, as though Thor was the curiosity in the cage rather than Loki himself.

The god smiled, and the emerald lit in something more frightening than fire. “Am I not always?” he asked lightly, entrancingly. He glanced off, looking to far corners of the room, the surveillance that pursued him every waking hour. There was a sadness, fragility, disconnection to his movements. “Is your father party to this meeting?”

“No,” Thor said flatly, straightening up, watching Loki like something he simply didn’t recognise.

Loki,  _finally_ , straightened. Most of his magic was blocked; illusions, however, took only the slightest  _whisper_  of true magic. He only needed the slightest of efforts to stand, straighten, hair short and straight and black, unlined. There was not enough magic to form his tangible war regalia, but it was close, outlined, shadowed over him.

“You do not come to release me,” Loki stated coldly, mouth thinning. “Of all, you should know that this is not my destiny. I was not born to remain caged, a  _plaything_ , after crimes that were minimal.”

Thor shook his head; they had had the argument once too many times, and it was pointless to attempt it once again.

Loki just watched him, waiting.

After all, they both always knew this moment would come.

Mjolnir was one of the few creations in the universes that could shatter the spelled glass; Thor roared as he swung it, listening to the reverberating cascade of Loki’s laughter, delectable and light and everything they both remembered from a childhood eternities ago.

The glass was everywhere, and Loki walked over it with bare feet, no pain, no touch.

His lips hovered against Thor’s, ice on fire, even his  _breath_  cooler than it should have ever been. “It is an eternal delight to have your company,” Loki told him, the caress of a breeze, almost inaudible.

They would see another again, of course. Loki would attempt to take over a world, Thor would intercede. Both would deny, to their dying breaths, that they could spend lifetimes watching the other. Their battles, their anger, their histories; they burnt one another with skin, waiting.

Loki was gone, and Thor stood in an empty room, edges of shattered glass reflecting pure, emerald green.


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi, first of all I want to say: I love your writing! But I also do have a request for a prompt that’s in my mind ever since I saw Skyfall: We know from the movie that Mallory got kidnapped and tortured by the IRA in the 80s. I want James to be on the rescue team, one of his first missions just having joined the SAS. I’d like them to remember this occasion when they meet (again) in Skyfall. If this could lead up to 00Mallory, it would be my dream come true… :D Thx so much! - dasgefaelltmir

The room was cold, dank. Stereotypical, in that regard; Bond had seen far too many of them already, most of his initial objectives being focused on search and rescue. An unfortunately large number of soldiers and other operatives had been taken by the IRA in recent months, and retrieval was a nightmare.

Their target was emaciated, battered. Bond let out a short sigh; he was one of the junior members of the team, concerning more with covering in case of attack than communicating with or even really noticing the target

He remembered the names, though. Every single time, he remembered the names. It was that trait that made MI6 notice; he could remember a mission ten month, eighteen months previously, and have perfect recall of the names and faces.

Gareth Mallory was carefully extracted from the hands of the IRA, and two decades later, Bond encountered him once again.

-

Mallory raised an eyebrow when Bond came knocking. “I assumed you would be back,” he commented, with faint tedium. “I remember you. First through the door, when your lot came for me.”

Bond smirked slightly. “Precisely,” he returned, easy and calm. “It’s good to see you again. Usually, your lot get shuffled off into a corner and forgotten about. Well done.”

“Patronising statements notwithstanding, thank you,” Mallory returned; Bond was abruptly reminded of the previous M, the woman who had spoken to him with similarly acerbic comments. Mallory was a good replacement, overall. “It is equally surprising to discover you are still alive. Breaking any records, yet?”

“Almost.”

Four months, and Bond would hold the record for the longest-serving double-oh agent in history. “Well,” Mallory –  _M_  – said quietly. “Excellent. That’s excellent.”

The unsaid lingered in the white space, between people who did not know one another, but knew how it felt. Knew the ache. Had seen one another in the most vulnerable state it is possible to be; Mallory’s torture, Bond’s degeneration. They are growing older, and can see the pain of that drawn in one another.

“Drinks?” Bond suggested, in a flippant, casual tone.

Mallory’s expression didn’t change, smile frozen in situ, confused but interested, certainly. “I should think so,” he replied calmly, with a query living somewhere in the back of his voice, remaining unspoken for a moment or two.  “Yes. Thank you, Bond.”

“A pleasure,” Bond nodded, and disappeared out of the office.


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry i know you probably have loads of prompts but: 00q/eleven*river crossover the doctor is captured by mi6 and river needs to save him. Bond and q help them escape so river can look good but the doctor doesn’t know their being helped. – themadthing

The Doctor tumbled out of h his holding cell in MI6, looking utterly confused but delighted by the fact that he wasn’t dead, and still had all his limbs. “MI6 is a lovely place,” he delightedly to River. “Brilliant people. Shame about the whole locking-me-up thing, but you can’t help it sometimes can you, you’d know…”

River leaned forward, and placed a finger over the Doctor’s lip. “Shh now,” she said simply, and the Doctor obediently stopped talking, looking mildly surprised at his own acquiescence. “We need to move quickly, we only have a narrow window to move in.”

“Ooh, escape plans,” the Doctor returned, rubbing his hands together in excitement. “And we’re breaking out of MI6? You’re  _brilliant_ , River,  _excellent_  work.”

River rolled her eyes. “You’re a bit slow today, sweetie,” she commented, and grinned. “Come on. Let’s run.”

She took the Doctor’s hand, and dragged him along the corridor.

The Doctor didn’t notice River glance up at a CCTV camera, and wink at it.

Q settled back in his chair, Bond at his side. “I’m debating setting you after them, so River can do a stage two of her ‘brilliant breakout’ for the Doctor,” Q mused aloud; Bond, at his side, chuckled.

“I don’t want to be beaten; I have a reputation to uphold,” he noted, shaking his head at the almost-disorientated Doctor as River ran through corridors, following Q’s specified instructions. “I could go and incarcerate them both, if you want?”

Q sighed, almost disappointed that he couldn’t. “It seems a little petty.”

Bond grinned. “True,” he conceded. “But it would be fun. Wouldn’t it?”

“No,” Q said firmly, looking up at his partner. “No chasing. Absolutely not. Be good, for once.”

Bond just shook his head slightly, smirking. “You should know by now, Quartermaster, that I’m  _never_  good.”


	30. Chapter 30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Can we get a fic where Bond gives really amazing hugs? Like, whenever he gives someone a hug it’s probably one of the best hugs they’ve ever received. Please have him hugging as many of your favorite characters as possible. – anon

Q was shrieking, inches away from bowling his mouse at anybody in the vicinity, darting through Q-branch and kicking tables, chairs, people.

Bond just snuck up behind him, twisted the Quartermaster around, and curled his arms around him.

Q melted.

-

Loki smiled in a slow and lethal way, sceptre in hand, green glinting off the planes of his armour, his eyes, his tangible and brilliant magic. “Your world will kneel at my feet, and I…”

He gulped, attempting to fight back against the curious  _embrace_  that had somehow looped around him. It felt  _odd_ , unfamiliar, a desperately needed attempt at physical contact, at comfort and love and want.

Bond held onto him, and Loki cried with the force of a repressed childhood.

-

Sherlock buzzed around his crime scene, arms out, yelling at everybody in the vicinity and calling each and every one of them idiots.

Bond appeared seemingly out of nowhere, and scooped the rail-thin and yelling man into a hug.

For the first time in living memory, Sherlock quieted.

-

Ianto proffered a cup of his patented coffee to the double-oh agent that Jack had invited into the Hub; Bond was glancing around the Hub with distinct interest, Myfanwy causing him understandable perturbation.

He took a sip, and moaned dramatically.

Ianto felt warm arms around him, and let out a low moan, Jack poking his head out of the door to watch with naked alarm.

-

Mycroft was reading through a collection of papers, jaw set, bored out of all comprehension as he ingested the information, absorbing it merrily and preparing for several relatively unpleasant phone calls.

Bond knocked on his door, and walked in. “Excellent,” Mycroft sighed, as Bond’s arms wrapped around him. “I was rather hoping you’d appear.”


	31. Chapter 31

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I’ll just blame Skyfall and Cloud Atlas sharing Ben Whishaw for this prompt idea: but what if Q discovers he is somehow related to Robert? It could be anything from a random mention by a minion to a simple need for answers to what could be the cause of his depression (inspired by another prompt from a few months ago). Would love for a bit of sweet fluff but otherwise have fun with this! – dwcourtesan

Q absentmindedly continued googling, fairly confused by what he was – apparently – finding.

A minion had mentioned, just casually, that he looked uncannily like the composer and pianist, Robert Frobisher. Q knew of the man – and was actually quite a fan of the now-hackneyed piece entitled ‘The Cloud Atlas Sextet’.

Thus now, he was looking up everything he could about the man who, quite honestly, looked like a cloning experiment of himself. It was heavily, ridiculously surreal; Q backtracked through his history, finding that Robert Frobisher simply didn’t  _have_  a background. Adopted at a very young age, brought up by a relatively upper-class family, but had been a substantial disappointment by entering into music.

He had become an amanuensis for a long while to have some form of income while writing his own piece, had a terrible reputation, and then had reached unapologetic fame with his sextet. Apparently, he had been hospitalised after a botched suicide attempt shortly after publishing his sextet, got married, and kept on composing.

Honestly, Q was more concerned about his DNA, and whether or not he was anomaly or an actual relative.

Q decided to deploy Bond, to acquire DNA. He argued that it was morally very dubious, Q agreed, and made him go anyway; if they hadn’t been dating, Bond would have point-blank refused.

He arrived back, a few hours later, with a vial of blood and some hair. “You don’t want to know,” he told Q darkly; he decided there were some things in the world that were best left as a mystery, and instead sent some of his own blood – and Frobisher’s – down for testing.

The next day, he had his results.

“Jesus,” he breathed at Bond, staring at the piece of paper. “I’m actually related. I’m related to Robert Frobisher. Bloody  _hell_.”

Bond raised an eyebrow. “What do you intend to do about it?” he asked lightly, quietly amused by Q’s reaction.

Q gestured nonsensically at the world around him. “I don’t know. Tell him, I guess. Meet him. Oh god, I don’t know. Should I? I probably should. Biologically, I mean, we’re identical… I think he’s my identical twin… which is probably something I should address, you know?”

“Probably,” Bond agreed, and just shook his head as Q merrily stressed.


	32. Chapter 32

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Could you do one where Frobisher and Sixsmith are out for a walk, at a restaurant, etc and a larger man whom presumably had slept with Robert before starts to harass him. Robert is ashamed of his old ways and Sixsmith decides to be brave and stand up for him against the man – clockworklove

“Found another one, eh?”

The voice is coarse, rounded with simple mocking, and Sixsmith can feel Robert stiffening slightly next to him; whomever this man is, he is evidently not somebody Robert relishes having encountered.

Judging by the insults being roughly thrown, and the insinuations that sit over his tone, Sixsmith can hardly blame him. “Ignore him, Sixsmith,” Robert tells him, with a lightness that he cannot quite carry off. “I knew him once, I do not any longer.”

The man’s commentary turns nastier, and he reaches out; a hand grasps Robert’s shoulder, hoists him around. “Weren’t all shy ‘fore, eh?” the man mocks, hand running down Robert’s side in an intimate and unpleasant manner. Robert hisses backward, eyes wide and angry and evidently a little uncertain; the man is twice his size, and Robert has ever been poor with self defence.

Thus, Sixsmith takes a step unto the breach.

“Leave off,” he says firmly, pulling Robert out of the way to come directly between them. “He is no longer a concern of yours. I will not stand your behaviour any longer – leave now, and we can avoid further trouble.”

The man snorts, looking Sixsmith up and down. “Yeah, ya little ponce, betcha…”

Sixsmith draws back a fist, and punches the man in the nose.

As is often the case with overlarge men with overlarge egos, there is the simple shock that comes with having been punched by one they did not expect. There is the fact that such men are unaccustomed to actually  _being_  punched, and appreciate very quickly that while they  _could_  enter into a physical scrap, it is often spectacularly imprudent when their competitor is physically adept – at the very least – and is utterly unafraid.

Said tormentor exits stage left, and Sixsmith smiles.

Robert plasters an expression to hide the shock, the appreciation, the approval; Sixsmith simply links their arms together, and guides him towards the restaurant where he intends to buy dinner.


	33. Chapter 33

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> …I was wondering in my general perusals whether you’d take prompts for The Hour? If so… Could I request a animal/human hybrid one (pref. where they always have tails/animal ears etc) where dog!Hector starts getting protective of cat!Freddie? Hector didn’t want it to happen and Freddie’s a little horrified/annoyed by the day-day interfering x3 Um if not, ignore me! Thank you and love you! <3~ShadyQuiet

Hector was rather fortunate, in being a dog. His tail was mostly out of the way, his ears were fairly discrete, and he could get away with minimal traits of his animalistic tendency unless he got angry, in which case he tended to bark obnoxiously at everybody in the vicinity. He also developed impossible loyalty to anybody who fed him, instantly.

Freddie, meanwhile, was a long-haired cat. There was no damn way of pretending otherwise; his ears had  _lynx tips_ , for crying out loud. His tail was past his knees and immensely fluffy, and his hair was curly and long and gorgeous, his spine hyperflexible, and he could sleep anywhere at the drop of a hat.

He was also ferociously independent, and would  _never_  stand for anybody trying to remove said independence.

So when Bel – a charming doe, easily startled but beautiful, strong – cuffed Freddie around the back of the head, and Hector nearly bit her arm off, it came as a little bit of a shock.

“What just happened?” Freddie asked, with severe distrust.

Bel took a handful of steps back, and watched Hector warily. “I…” Hector managed, blinking oddly, teeth bared faintly in an unavoidable demonstration of his hybrid tendencies. “I’m assuming that, for whatever reason, my canine side has become active… not sure, yet.”

“Bel, try and hit me,” Freddie asked sweetly.

“You have to be joking,” she said carefully, looking over Freddie with a sceptical eyebrow.

Freddie lunged.

Hector  _beat him to it_.

“Oh god,” Freddie breathed, as Bel was pinned against a wall, and Hector growled – he came to, looked extremely horrified for a moment, and backed off. “You’ve decided to become possessive. Protective. About  _me_. Are you  _serious,_  Hector?!”

Hector raised his hands, eyes wide. “Freddie, this was not my intention,” he said, quite honestly. “I’m so sorry. It’s not something I can help.”

Freddie hissed out a feline snarl, and backed away a little. “Try,” he said lividly. “Try _very hard_. I’m not going to spend my time being chased after by an overexcited  _puppy_ , Hector. I won’t let this happen. Absolutely not. You’ll have to do something. Definitely something.”

Bel could not stop laughing.

Freddie swore at her fluently, and stormed out the room.


	34. Chapter 34

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I don’t know if you watch Torchwood or Spooks, but please can you write a story in which Q, Toshiko Sato (from Torchwood) and Tariq Masood (from Spooks) all get together to have a bitch about their respective jobs? Thank you! – anon

“So. What brings you to London after all this bloody time?”

Tosh rolled her eyes slightly, curling her fingers around her coffee, blowing at it with a slight sigh of want; Ianto’s coffees made everything else in the world pale in comparison, but this particular – very dingy-looking – coffee shop was a favourite preserve of various agents and general personnel in the nearby MI buildings who wanted a decent cup of tea or coffee.

Tariq smirked, swilling his own macchiato. “Yes, I thought you lot were trapped in Cardiff until the end of time amen?” he teased.

The three had met at various points; Tariq and Tosh had known each other through the London branch of Torchwood a lifetime ago – Tariq had started with the ‘ET gang’ until the Canary Wharf Battle itself, headhunted by MI5 afterwards.

Q had hacked the two MI divisions in tandem, and been brought in by Tariq and the rest of MI5; after a while in an interrogation cell, and Q being stolen to MI6 under MI5’s noses, Tariq and Q became good friends. Tosh and Q were introduced through him, after MI6 informed Q that he needed a contact within Torchwood in case of emergencies.

Once Q had got over the shock, he and Tosh were thick as thieves. Ever since, whenever the two MI officers were free – and Tosh could escape to London – they met up for drinks.

“Jack wants some scouting out of a site in Ealing,” she explained, sounding relatively weary. “Owen’s busy sulking somewhere, he won’t expect me back for a few hours. Freedom.”

Tariq and Q exchanged smirks. “ _Owen_ ,” Q said, with the tone of a mocking teenage boy. “How is he?”

They all knew, of course. “How’s your James Bond?” Tosh retorted, without missing a beat.

Q grinned like a cat with cream. “Two months and counting,” he told them triumphantly.

Tariq whistled piercingly, delightedly. “That’s brilliant!” he crowed. “Seriously? The double-oh agent?”

A smug nod. “The one and only. All mine. And he’s  _gorgeous_. Just, oh god. You have no idea. Unbelievable in bed…”

Tariq grimaced slightly. “Charming,” Tosh supplemented, her nose wrinkling. “We don’t need to know. What about you, Tariq?”

He shrugged. “Not too bad. Can’t ever quite seem to explain to potential girls that I’m a spook, and the girls in my branch… not my scene.”

“I could hook you up with R, if you like?” Q offered, taking a satisfied slurp of tea, and sighing obscenely. “She’s lonely and desperate…”

Tariq threw a biscuit at him, and Tosh just laughed.


	35. Chapter 35

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cloud Atlas prompt! So we all know Frobisher is a little shit and I find myself interested in the fact that he tries to seduce Vivyan. Could you please do one taking place while he’s in the Ahrs household and times where he subtly flirts with Vivyan ( bends over a lot, makes subtle sexual references, etc). I just really need this in my life :) - clockworklove

My dear Sixsmith,

Exploits in the la grande séduction are going swimmingly. Vyvyan is beginning to appreciate my interests, and I do harbour hopes that a liaison would be ultimately beneficial to my own career. Syphilitic though he may be, he has influence. My composition is taking shape, I must note.

As to Vyvyan. Well. You know, dear boy, that I can be sexually compelling when I wish. The approach to the elderly is rather separate from my approaches to the radiant Eva, or the elegant Jocasta. It requires less subtlety. Seduction is an absurdly simple art when one knows how, and Vyvyan is - to the best of my knowledge – being drawn in, like a noose around one’s throat. Bending forward to retrieve a mislaid slip of paper, rustling through papers, leafing through one’s catalogues of sheet music and gasping at the beauty of a melody – flatter the ego, and watch the castle of cards topple.

You remember, Sixsmith, when we two met. You thought me entrancing, if I recall, the moment we made true contact. Skin against skin. Touch is a truly wondrous device. It takes so little, a hand on one’s arm or a brush of arm in a doorway. It happens in an instant, like that curious sensation when one touches metal, and it inexplicably shocks. I would assume you know more on that theme than I, but the concept stands, I trust.

Thus, I have made moves to inspire contact. It is simple, it is easy, and do not fret, Sixsmith. It is not like our moments. This is the uninspired drudgery of an equation being fulfilled. Cause and effect. You taught me that, Sixsmith, and I know you will appreciate that these moments have no passion in the slightest on my part. It is an affectation, naturally.

I shall keep you informed as matters develop.

In the interim, I remain – quite indefinitely – yours.

R. B. Frobisher.


	36. Chapter 36

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You both are insanely perfect; please never change! *Spoiler warning* Could I possibly prompt a Canon Divergent AU for Cloud Atlas wherein Sixsmith either gets to Forbisher before he can fire the gun, or that the gun only had one bullet that was already used when Robert shot Vyvyan, thus failing in killing himself, and so Sixsmith catches him in the bath, stunned, with the gun still in his mouth? Can end however you want it, with angst or h/c or smut, totally up to you! Please, and thank you <3 – anon

Sixsmith had known, for a long while, that there was something very wrong. He felt for Robert’s letter, the promise of the sunrise on the Scott Monument; he would be there, he  _must_  be there. Sixsmith knew well enough to understand the meanings of ‘convention’, of ‘defying convention’, and all of Robert’s tendencies towards the darkness that could linger in the soul.

Terror, white-hot, flared when he could not locate his once-lover.

Sixsmith had never required a sunrise to see everything, to feel everything in a type of clarity Frobisher – in his beautiful, airy brilliance – could never truly grasp. Robert was a being of flight and of escape, never able to truly understand the need to stay. To be. That the best of the world could be seen over time, that it is never over, that one can keep growing for a thousand years and still never be done.

That a single work is not indicative of genius; it is the exploration of years, of eternities, that are truly brilliant.

He takes the stairs two or three at a time, trilby falling in his eyes; he slams through the door, sees the letter on the desk in Frobisher’s familiar hand, and there is no sign of the man.

Instead, the bathroom door lies open, and a body lies within.

Sixsmith has never moved so quickly. He is there, and he reaches Robert in time to see his trigger finger flick inwards.

And, nothing happens.

“ _No_.”

A sharp exhale, and Robert is shaking, and he looks up. “Good god,” he murmurs. “I had no conception that death would mean I should see you again.”

“What are you doing?” Sixsmith asks, in a sharp tone, cracking faintly. “Robert, you…”

Robert looked at him, eyes slightly wide. “My sincere apologies, Sixsmith,” he murmured. “I had rather hoped you would not be able to track me, although I must commend you for sheer obstreperousness.”

The organisation was immense; Robert had a towel to staunch the blood, had a note to warn away chamber-maids, everything.

Except, it would seem, not a loaded gun.

Sixsmith moved forward in easy steps, wrenched the gun roughly from Robert’s hands; he reached back for it almost plaintively, everything utterly calm about him. This was not a spur-of-the-moment decision.

“I’m not going to let you do this,” Sixsmith told him, shaking slightly. “You do  _not do this_. Ever. For  _god’s sake_ , Robert.”  
Robert just looked at him.

Sixsmith collapsed to his knees, and remained by Robert, who sat up in the bath and reached out to him, hand warm on Sixsmith’s shoulder, completely and entirely  _alive_.


	37. Chapter 37

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I will crown you Rulers of the Universe if you could a prompt for The Hour. Basically Freddy’s being a sassy little shit so Hector spanks him + Freddy is embarrassed at being turned on by it all. – anon

Freddie strode, long fingers flicking through the papers as he made his way to his desk.  “Wrong, no, inaccurate, and  _this_ …” he paused at Lix’s desk, holding up a sheet, “is just bloody stupid.”

"Now, now can’t be too harsh," she commented, squinting at the paper through a haze of cigarette smoke.

Freddie rolled his eyes, seating himself opposite her. “Oh I really think I can,” he replied, taking the offered cigarette and leaning over the desk to light it, taking an indulgently long drag.

"Bloody awful bit of writing," he finished, tossing it over.

"Hector’s?"

Freddie gave a disparaging snort. “Who else?”

Lix inhaled, stubbing out in her ash tray before flicking over the page. “You know it’s not that awful,” she commented, holding up a piece of paper to be whisked away to Belle’s office by a passing minion. “Truly, the basics are there, it just lacks… style.”

"Not to mention correct referencing, quotations, it’s sloppy journalism…" Freddie began, slowing only as he saw the shadow fall over the desk.

Hector looked down at him, watching the man wheel around to face him. “Didn’t like it, then?”

Freddie paused, eyes flicking up and down the frontman. “Not as such no,” he replied, turning back. “Wasn’t really my cup of tea.”

"Could you tell me why?" Hector asked leaning against the shelves, looking from Freddie to Lix, and finally at his paper.

"It’s just…" Freddie waved his hands, as though the digits would find the words that his failing tongue could not. "Messy. Sloppy. Ill thought out. Terrible Hector, it’s terrible."

"Right," Hector nodded, looking down briefly, before flashing his best smile. "Could I talk to you in my office for a moment?"

Freddie nodded, throwing a glance to his colleague; Lix, however, had a rather strong survival instinct and had become very busy very swiftly.

Hector’s office was impressively oversized, considering that all it contained was a few sheets of paper and a typewriter. Freddie looked around as Hector closed the door, sarcastic comment on the edge of his lips as he felt the other man grab his collar.

"What on earth do you think you’re playing at?" Freddie asked as he felt himself dragged downwards, over the elder man’s knee.

"Doing something that your parents clearly failed to do twenty odd years ago," Hector told him, yanking Freddie’s trousers and pants down to expose a pale arse. "Teaching you some damned  _manners_.”

The first blow was humiliating, the second stung like an absolute nightmare. Freddie resisted the urge to cry out, god only knew what people would think. He took each stinging slap silently as a personal affront to his character. Or would have done. Until he reached blow number eight or nine, when the effect was rather…different. The pain mingled with friction as his body rubbed against Hector’s clothed legs. It felt disgustingly good; soon, it wasn’t yelps but moans that Freddie was suppressing, willing his body not to give away his sordid little joy.

After fifteen, Hector stopped. Freddie jumped up, trousers back in place as swiftly as possible and ears beetroot red. “Right then,” Freddie blinked. “I’m…” he looked over his expectant - and rather amused – co-worker. “I’m sorry. Truly Hector, I am. The piece had its merits and I’m… yes. Sorry.”

With that, he bolted out of the room and headed for the gents.


	38. Chapter 38

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I haven’t seen very many Avengers prompts, and I saw on your FAQ that you do Avengers stuff :D so please please please could you write a Clint/Natasha backstory, maybe when Natasha’s brought in by Clint to SHIELD or maybe their first mission together. Up to you really, your writing is fantastic no matter what the prompt is :P Thank you a billion times and stay the awesome people you are ^.^ - anon

Hawkeye breathed out slowly, sliding to a decent angle, a clear shot; the mark was known to be mobile, quick responses, a truly exceptional woman by all accounts.

She was also beautiful, but Hawkeye tried to suppress that particular revelation for the sake of his own sanity.

Hawkeye raised an eyebrow.

In a heartbeat of his motion, she had disappeared.

The next he knew, he was in hand-to-hand combat with his mark; he had no clue how she had moved so far, so fast, but there was little he could do but move from defensive to offence as fast as he could manage, and – as best he could – tackle her.

Oh, but she was  _beautiful_.

She was also tired, visibly so. SHIELD had been pursuing her for months, now; she was a danger, a liability. Known to have worked for a number of prolific terrorist organisations, gangs, independent assassination groups; altogether, the kind of person not entirely needed in the world.

Hawkeye was very good, and she was tired, and after a worryingly long time of combat, he had her suitably unarmed.

“Natasha Romanov,” he said simply, coldly.

Natasha made no response, other than to raise an eyebrow, and attempt another tackle; Hawkeye slammed her head into the floor, and she moaned, body relaxing under his grip. “I was sent to kill you,” he informed her. “I’m not going to.”

Blurrily, Natasha focused on him. “Excuse me?”

Hawkeye shifted, twisting her back and over, subduing her with various devices and ties he had known for a while now, and had been warned may be necessary for those with sufficient combat skills. “You’re good,” he stated simply. “We need people like you, and I don’t know if you’ll be dispatched later, but I’m going to bring you in anyway.”

Natasha blinked. “Who are you?”

“Hawkeye,” he replied, with a small smile. “I work for SHIELD.”


	39. Chapter 39

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> can I ask you to write about Cloud Atlas? Like, maybe Roberts Frobisher isn’t dead after all (I really don’t know how that can be true when Sixsmith saw him dead but whatev) and some years later he visits Sixsmith and then stuff and love happens? yes? oh great you’re the best!! <3 – anon

Sixsmith reached for the door handle, feeling rather tired; it had been a fairly long day, research was going well but was quite wearisome, and it was precisely seven years to the day. An anniversary of sorts, but quite honestly, one Sixsmith would give worlds to not remember or need to consider.

There was music playing.

It was beautiful. Truly beautiful, in a way that reminded Sixsmith of some intangible happiness, something out of reach but beautiful in its own, quiet way.

“Hello?” he called out, spine tingling slightly; his family were all scattered, rarely came in without warning him first – and didn’t actually possess a key.

There was a small shuffle of movement. “Leaving spare keys under doormats, or indeed resting on the door frame, is not overly secure,” a voice told him, with laced humour, and a familiarity that took Sixsmith’s breath away quite entirely.

In a heartbeat, he was falling.

Only, it appeared that somebody was there to catch him.

“I cannot believe that after all this time, you are still quite so fond of trilbys,” the voice told him fondly.

Sixsmith turned with terrifying violence, trying to find a face, trying to make anything cohere; this was science, this was  _logic_ , being forced out of his head as he faced the single entity, the remembrance of somebody so important,  _too_  important, a mimicry of somebody buried with self he had been so many years ago.

“Bobby,” he breathed, disbelieving.

The man had the  _audacity_  to look annoyed. “Robert,” he corrected, with a small smile, so  _warm_ , so terrifyingly tangible. “I owe you an explanation. My supposed death was a necessity, my escape; I have been working in Seoul, continuing to compose, while my sextet attempts to flourish. My words, Sixsmith, were genuine. I felt then I should never write anything more profound.”

Sixsmith was past the point of coherence, pressing hands against Frobisher’s body, trying to establish, trying to  _understand_ , that he was there at all.

“I found myself forming something new,” Robert continued, with a form of oblivion that was  _so like him_ , an odd type of selfishness, the importance of his own endeavours, and Sixsmith had always been the type to listen, allow his grandiosity to flourish, untempered. “This, what you can hear: my newest triumph, and I use it advisedly.”

Sixsmith leant on him, breathless, fingers wrapped in Frobisher’s jacket as he gently, tenderly stroked through his hair, and pressed a kiss to his temple, and Sixsmith traced the birthmark he knew lived in his skin, his  _Robert_.

“The Corsican Etudes,” Robert completed gently, with a soft kiss to Rufus’s lips.

Sixsmith was entirely undone.


	40. Chapter 40

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Love your work ladies, as usual. This little thought popped up in my head. When Molly Hooper tells Sherlock that he reminded her of her dad, looking sad when he thought nobody could see him, she was really talking about Ten. Molly Hooper is a regeneration of Jenny. When she says her dad is dead, it’s because she knows he regenerated, so in a sense her dad died. You can take it as you like how she saved Sherlock, using regeneration energy or her dad. Bonus points for a Doctor appearance. – party-in-the-blue-box

Sherlock opened his eyes.

“Curious,” he murmured to himself.

A small but notable part of himself had believed it was extremely unlikely that Molly’s story was true; he had always known that there was something curious about Molly Hooper, but truly had no idea what nature that peculiarity might be.

The discovery had been bizarre but notable: Molly was part of a species that did not inhabit this Earth, nor indeed any one close. Rather, she was connected to a race that were able to regenerate their physical and mental faculties in the case of near-death experiences.

Ultimately, something utterly  _imperative_  for Sherlock’s current aims.

Molly had explained, and admitted that yes, she could be of assistance to him.

A medium known as artron energy was key; an organic force, energy, that was able to inspire cell regeneration and preservation: something Sherlock would later come to study in minute depth, in a clawing attempt to recapture moments he would later forget. Molly explained that artron energy left ripples, indents, in a place one had regenerated; she had learnt to siphon the excess, use it in whatever capacity she could to help people. It was all she wanted, ultimately. A past version of her under another name had wanted to run and explore and fight – Molly just wanted peace, and wanted to see a world left just a little better than that she had first come to explore.

Sherlock had been given a curious transfusion of Molly’s blood, fallen off a roof, and then his body introduced to raw artron.

The footage was sublime: his body, reframing, resharping. His genetic coding keeping the energy from restructuring him into something wholly new, tying him into a single shape that was impervious to the supposedly lethal effects of a suicidal leap from a building.

Frankly, a part of Sherlock would never be anything other than cynical – and thus, would never easily believe that he could be barred from death via an intangible product that no human eye had ever been able to discern.

And  _yet_.

There are more things in heaven and earth, let alone the universe as a whole.

When the man Molly informed him was her father arrived, Sherlock was almost ready to believe that there was an entire wealth of knowledge out of his grasp, the preserve of others he would never see or fully consider.

That was not an acceptable answer. Whatever life Sherlock had, he wished to fill it with knowledge and understandings no other could begin to contemplate. Remain unique. Remain  _extraordinary_.

He stepped into the blue police box, and let himself believe.


	41. Chapter 41

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony has panic attacks, more frequently than he’d like to think about. He tries to drown them in alcohol, but one night he finds out that a certain super soldier has hidden all his Jack Daniels. Tony realizes that drowning in someone else can be just as good. – anon

Tony was hyperventilating.

Not unusual, not in the slightest, but the thing that  _was_  unusual was the notable lack of any form of alcohol. Tony had a supply, he  _always_  had a supply, and he always _would_  have a supply because no medication in the world touched the panic barring a very strong combination of alcohol and eventual catatonia.

Essentially, he began rifling through every single drawer and cupboard in the building, trying with ever more expletives to track down  _any_  alcohol, and finding absolutely none. “Fuck’s  _sake_ ,” he mumbled.

“You’re not getting it back.”

Tony slid down to the floor, turning as he did so, finding his Captain in the doorway. “Where the fuck is it?” he managed, as the panic started to cloud inwards, and he squeezed his eyes open and shut to blot everything away. “ _Give it_.”

Steve just raised an eyebrow. “No,” he replied simply.

Tony lunged; Steve subdued him easily enough, almost rolling his eyes at the absurdity. “Tony, you can’t keep doing this.”

Steve clung onto him, as Tony let out something like a battle cry, lividly throwing fists in Steve’s direction and having them deflected easily enough.

“Let me do this  _my way_ , you interfering…”

The panic overtook him; Tony collapsed, pretty much into Steve’s arms, curling into himself and half-sobbing, half-screaming. Steve just held on in silence, letting the man cry himself out, until everything stilled, until he was somewhere near coherency once again.

The silence was deafening.

“Tony?”

“I hate you, Cap.”

Steve smiled; the nickname was affectionate, always had been. Tony was telling him he was forgiven, somehow, despite being the one to interfere with his usual habits and steal away the alcohol from him. “You don’t,” he contradicted easily, holding Tony to his chest, a safe embrace.

Tony sighed slightly, and nodded. “Yeah,” he agreed. “I don’t.”


	42. Chapter 42

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I really love your writing and I just found out that you do The Hour and this makes me really, really happy. Anywhooooo, can you do a Randall/Lix piece placed while Freddie is in the hospital unconscious and everyone from the show is standing in the halls waiting for him to wake up. Maybe Bel sitting next to Freddie’s bed? Thanks – bleachgeek

“I can’t keep doing this, you know I can’t,” Lix said, through a mouthful of cigarette smoke. “After everything, it hits a boy like Freddie.”

Randall just raised an eyebrow. “It hits all sorts…”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” Lix snapped back, taking another angry puff, hands shaking only a little. Only a very little. “You can’t write this off as an occupational hazard, this is beyond… he nearly died. He nearly bloody went and died. It takes everything from you, in the end.”

Both were silent for a moment. Lix stubbed out her cigarette, and very seriously contemplated starting another one without further delay. “Bel is distraught, of course.”

Lix let out a low laugh, almost a cackle. “She loves him,” she said bluntly. “Of course she’s distraught. She’ll be keeping a vigil until he wakes up, and god knows I will be too.”

“You need to go home,” Randall told her, not unkindly. “You’re…”

“ _Enough_ ,” Lix interjected quickly, hands shaking a little more violently, reaching for another cigarette, trying to avoid the fact that she was near tears, and she was never near tears, not about something like this.

But it was  _Freddie_ , and he didn’t deserve this. Not this. He was supposed to be untouchable.

The trembling was too much; the bag fell from her hands, and Randall moved infinitely faster, scooping up contents and reassembling with Lix there too, scrabbling, hands shaking until she fell forward slightly, Randall catching her easily. “It’s okay,” he soothed, accent a shade more pronounced.

“It’s bloody not,” Lix contradicted stubbornly. She wasn’t crying. She was entirely numb. The simple fact of his  _being there_ , a solid and immoveable presence; it was enough, at least for a little while.

They remained silent, Randall rocking her slightly. Lix had seen the worst of the world, true hell at times; never before had she been so  _close_  to it, not since her child had been lost, not since everything had ended. Everything was piling up, a catalogue of chaos, and Freddie had simply tipped the scales.

The journalism had worked. The bad guys were in prison. The Hour would still run.

For once, it didn’t seem enough.


	43. Chapter 43

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey! I looooove ur work so much:))) I was wondering if you could do a dr who/ Star Trek crossover where the tardis lands in the enterprise. (Pstttttt 10 plzz) – relativelyhuman

Spock’s eyebrow was quirked at its usual angle, and Jim couldn’t help a poorly suppressed smile. “Well now, Mr Spock, what seems to be the problem?”

“Unusual readings, Captain,” he replied, staring at his monitors with deep intensity, an almost-ferocity. “In the bridge. Fascinating.”

Jim’s smile became even broader, as he glanced around the bridge, and opened his mouth…

At which stage, an absolutely  _bizarre_  noise rocked through the bridge.

“Phasers set to stun,” Jim said with quiet urgency, expression falling instantly to something far more serious. “Mr Spock?”

“As yet, nothing determinate,” Spock told him, shreds of tension in his posture. “Captain…”

In the middle of the bridge – right next to Sulu’s chair – a large, blue box was appearing. Everybody watched with utter shock, every single person on the bridge holding onto their phasers, as it became fully tangible. “Doctor McCoy, prepare for incoming, we have intruders on the bridge.”

There was a nod, a return, and the box door slammed open. “Hello!” a voice said brightly. “Blimey. No.  _No_. This is… it can’t be. Is it?”

“It would seem to resemble a twentieth century Earth device, used widely in what was the United Kingdom,” Spock told them from behind, while Kirk kept his phaser primed, and the stranger beamed.

The stranger was tall, whippet-thin, coat swinging around his ankles. “It  _is_ ,” the stranger breathed, hands up happily, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet. “Brilliant.  _Brilliant_.”

“What are you doing on board this vessel?” Kirk asked sharply.

The man grinned. “Just passing by. I didn’t mean to land right in the middle of everything.”

“Mr Spock?”

“No visible hostile arms,” Spock returned, voice dry and utterly neutral. “Intent uncertain.”

“Only here to say hi,” the man replied, looking a dab less confident, but ridiculously excited nevertheless. “I’m the Doctor. And this is the Starship Enterprise. The one and only Starship Enterprise.”

Kirk didn’t take his eyes off the stranger. “There’s only one doctor aboard this ship,” he said, and glanced to Spock. “Mr Spock, if you would. Doctor McCoy should be here in a moment or two.”

“Ah. Right. Look, I’m not…”

Spock moved gorgeously quickly, and ‘the Doctor’ was still a little too enamoured with the entire ship to do anything useful.

Vulcan death grip.

The Doctor slid to the floor.


	44. Chapter 44

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello there c: I was wondering if you would write me a 00M? I know you usually do Bond/Q or 006/Q, but I don’t really ship those… If you can, can M have received a phone call that her husband/child/close family member had died and Bond was in the room when she got it, and he comforts her? If not, well, at least I know! Thankyou x – anon

Their relationship was not strictly professional.

It never had been; neither had never really acknowledged it, but there was as aspect that went further than M’s anonymity, her superiority, Bond’s arrogance and lack of tact. There was something that rang true. Their unflinching trust in one another, despite having absolutely no reason to foster it.

When M answered the phone with Bond waiting for a mission debrief, he watched the expression change, set. It turned into something more angular, less connected, the loss of the shreds of humanity Bond could occasionally see in her when he sought it out.

“What happened?”

M looked at him with something like outright hostility. “I don’t believe it is any of your concern, double-oh seven,” she told him curtly, defensive aspects sliding into her posture, her tone.

Bond just raised an eyebrow. “What happened?” he repeated, without any judgement, without even the slightest deviation in his expression.

For a heartbeat, it looked like she would simply continue arguing, continue protesting. For an  _instant_ , her expression was so nakedly  _angry_  it was enough to be frightening.

Instead, she did the single thing Bond had never expected, had never seen: she turned away for an instant, breath hitching incrementally, and turned back with her expression fixed, but closer to breaking than Bond had ever seen.

He stood, voice infinitely softer now. “What happened?”

M looked straight back at him, combatants over no man’s land. “My husband has been extremely unwell,” she told him, flint. “He died. This morning, it would seem.”

It was nothing like what Bond had expected. But then, Bond made a living on assimilating the unexpected with breathtaking speed.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, voice tonally actually  _conveying_  some form of sympathy.

M shook her head lightly, sliding into her chair, eyes somewhat blank. “I never quite…” she said quietly, closing her eyes briefly, opening them, very still. “He seemed to have an indomitability. It never seemed possible that he would succumb. But then, I suppose we all do. I’ve lost extraordinary people, in my time.”

“It’s not the same,” Bond pointed out.

M’s voice was sharp, a whiplash. “I know full bloody well,” she returned. “No single being was close to him. He was… well. More than extraordinary. And put up with me, which is, I suppose, a success enough in and of itself.”

Bond’s hand was warm, gentle. Oddly, not entirely unwelcome.

“I wasn’t there,” she said quietly, voice snapping a little. “I ought to have been.”

M placed her head in her hands, almost unnoticeably starting to cry. Bond remained, hands warm, a simple and unobtrusive presence, just something to cling onto now that something so fundamental, so important, had been lost.


	45. Chapter 45

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alec and Eve…I ship them because of you! Now here is the idea, double date: 006/Eve and 007/Q. They go together to have dinner the 4 of them. Something funny :) – anon

"I got the latest pattern, thought you might like it," Q smiled, handing over a small magazine clipping to Eve, hand brushing the wine cooler.

"Thanks love, my mother will love it," Eve replied gratefully, stashing the clip in her bag; Alec’s eyes flicked to Bond in the well-practiced manner of men whose lives depended on reading one another’s slightest gesture.

_Knitting,_  Bond mouthed.

Alec said not a word, but Bond barely managed to suppress a snort.

"Any idea what you’re ordering?" Q asked absentmindedly.

Alec smirked slightly, staring at the menu, before glancing up at Bond with eyes slightly narrowed. “Steak, medium rare,” he stated at Bond, and returned to his own perusals before Bond could react. “Q, you’ll wind up with a passionfruit salad or something bizarre. Eve?”

"Don’t be a twat," she chastised, with a mild edge to her tone; Alec flicked a brief glance to Bond, a conspiratorial thing, and mouthed ‘fish". Lo and behold: "The haddock looks good…"

“Alec, steak as well? Or are you on the venison, dear?” Q asked, flicking through the menu and decidedly not looking at the superfood salad (which just  _might_  have included pomegranate seeds). Q exchanged a glance with Eve, the pair snickering slightly.

"Your punning is appalling," Eve murmured, as Bond looked around, visibly confused; Alec didn’t look considerably more enlightened, it had to be said.

Alec blinked, just about managing to keep his expression intact. “Venison sounds lovely, yes - are we getting another red?”

“Punning is apparently good. Subliminal messaging, less so,” he noted, with a darting glance to Bond; Eve snorted, and Alec turned to her, utterly bemused. She patted his arm with vague condescension as the waiter came over.

"I’ll order?" Alec suggested, but Bond was already there, and smirked briefly at Alec; the resulting look of petulance was endearingly childish.

Eve stroked down his arm lightly, comforting now. “Hush dear, he’s only compensating for his age”.

"Is that with the ordering or the toyboy?" Alec replied, a little drily.

Q grinned. “With the Aston Martin actually,” he added, the three of them giggling as Bond turned back to them, eyebrow raised at Q.

"Really?” he asked politely. “What was it you were saying last night? ‘Oh James, I’ve never had someone as experienced as you, oh god that’s good, where did you even learn to do  _that_  with your…”

"Yes, yes!" Q cut in, blush rising furiously. "We get the idea."

A moment of quiet, a slight pause in the chaos. “So when are we having that foursome?” Eve asked innocently, causing her boyfriend to spill white wine across his plate, Q to snort, and Bond’s expression to remain remarkably impassive.

Q’s grin turned wicked. “Let’s see if your aim is better in bed,” he teased; Eve’s almost-kill of one of the greatest agents MI6 had ever known was a running joke in every single department of MI6. Mercifully, she had reached the stage where she owned the joke, rather than going pathetic when it was mentioned.

“Try me,” she purred; Q blanched, but only a little. He was the only one of the proceedings who was one hundred percent certain of his sexuality – and Eve, for all her virtues, didn’t quite feature.

Bond grinned, Alec still not quite recovered. “Three men, sure you could handle us?”

Eve raised an eyebrow, voice calm. “I could have you all  _begging_  for me, if I wanted.”

"That’s quite enough, I think," Alec commented, grasping Eve’s hand possessively. "Can’t take you lot anywhere…" 


	46. Chapter 46

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I am just finishing up Goldeneye and I’d like to request darkfic. Alec wins. I don’t care if the satellite explodes or the plot works, but in the end dark!Alec captures James and keeps him as his pet. – anon

London lay smoking, a ruin of people Bond had once given worlds, lives, sanity to protect.

Alec stood by him, hand laced in short hair, dragging the man to standing; he had long since been handcuffed, had no way to slide himself free of the various bonds. Alec had known him too long, and all Bond’s usual tricks would never work.

“You took out the world for a petty vendetta,” Bond told him quietly.  
Alec pistolwhipped him; Bond fell back, Alec moving over him, expression black and _nothing_  like the man Bond had once known. “My family,” he said simply. “If you found that your parents’ death could have been avoided, was  _planned_ , you would have done this too.”

Bond raised an eyebrow. “My parents died too. I know how it feels…”

“ _MI6 murdered them_ ,” Alec yelled, inches from Bond’s face, everything of him a whirl of livid fury. “I lost everything. You fell into MI6’s arms – a child they knew came from a very good background, an eleven-year-old whose parents had already taught him how to use guns, ensured played sports and ran fast and had instincts, and did the one thing that would make that boy theirs.”

Bond was utterly, desperately quiet. The crawling sensation prickled along skin, unpleasant and immediate, and he  _knew_  what Alec was saying.

MI6 found orphans. They found anybody with nothing to lose.

Of course, they could always have made it contrived. Maybe – just  _maybe_ , and Bond had no proof, not yet, but the fear now lived – they didn’t merely find orphans, but _made them_.

Alec looked over him, and knew Bond could see.

“Almost all MI6 agent recruits are found between ages nine to thirteen,” he explained softly. “Children from families with military pasts, children with aptitude, children with intelligence for Q-branch and anger for the double-ohs.”

It couldn’t be that simple. It  _couldn’t be_.

Bond looked at him steady. “How many families have you destroyed through what you’ve done?”

“How many families have I saved, here and in all other places around the world, because of what I’ve done?”

It was undeniable.

It was  _London_.

“You took my home.”

“They took mine.”

Arguing with somebody who believes they are right is close to being an impossibility; they will never wish to find reason or logic, but will doggedly pursue their doctrine until the ends of the earth.

Bond remained neutral, calm. “And me?”

Alec look sad for a single moment, a flicker of something under the surface that wouldn’t quite leave, that gave Bond hope. “I’m sorry, James,” he murmured. “Come. We need to go.”


	47. Chapter 47

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crossover AU Doctor Who/Sherlock? I’m in a Johnlock frenzy right now BUT I’m also uber picky about content and the way that Sherlock is written (most stuff I find hard to believe and my goal in reading/writing fanfic is to think “wow this could even be canon” — just my personal preference). Basically, Sherlock/John written in place of Ten/Rose in DW S2E2 “New Earth,” i.e. where a third party (Cassandra) gets into their heads and verbalizes their private feelings about each other. :) – anon

“Ooh, this is  _fun_.”

John was watching, utterly speechless. He literally had no idea what to do with himself, or why anything was happening any more – because Sherlock Holmes, the man who had spirited him away into the wide blue yonder and made him see the world through new eyes – was apparently possessed. In the most literal of senses.

Thus, a breath, a slow exhale. “Get  _out_  of his body,” he said levelly, trying not to consider the surreal nature of that particular statement. “You can’t just  _steal_ somebody’s form.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, playful and mocking, an expression John had never seen before and, quite honestly, didn’t know quite how to handle. “He’s very pretty,” he – she – told him, glancing over her new body,  _Sherlock’s_  body. “I can hear him.  _Ooh_ , I can hear him, really  _hear him_. Oh. I did  _not_  expect  _that_.”

“ _Out_ ,” John yelled.

Sherlock’s expression moved into a truly wicked grin, before a surge of light; Sherlock sucked in a breath, and John’s face turned lighter, devoid of the lines that made John _John_. He was  _her_  instead, and it was enough to make Sherlock truly, honestly  _angry_. “You do not take him from me,” he hissed, eyes sparking with anger, shoulders rolling, prepared to attack. “Get  _out of him_. Now, before I destroy you. There may a chance, a _chance_ , to rehabilitate you in another body – but you leave John,  _now_.”

Behind them, things were moving, things were progressing. “We need to go,” she said, relatively urgently. “They’re coming for us.”

“ _Leave John_.”

John sighed, head cocking slightly, bored. “ _Fine_ ,” he said, with the tone of the put-upon, and spirited into Sherlock’s body once again.

“He’s shirty,” she said petulantly, Sherlock’s mouthpiece, hands on his hips. “And aren’t  _you_  keeping secrets, Doctor Watson. Lovely secrets, too, sweet little secrets. Won’t you tell him, hmm? Can’t you tell him?”

Hearing Sherlock’s low baritone rumble with the intonation and bounce of a female who had been relatively high-pitched, once upon a time, would probably never stop being a novelty. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Sherlock’s expression turned coy – and John felt nothing but alarm at  _that_  – and sauntered towards him. He was  _pouting_ , for the love of god. “You like him,” she murmured, soft and purring. “That face, that voice,  _oh_.”

The noise she made was nothing short of orgasmic, and  _that_  was enough to send blood shooting southwards. “We still need to leave,” John pointed out. “Before they kill us, preferably, and then you  _get away_  from Sherlock.”

“He likes you too.”

John rolled his eyes, and started moving. He was not exactly going to believe the words coming out of the lips of not-Sherlock who was possessing actual-Sherlock. Too weird. Too  _bloody_  weird and surreal and just, no. Absolutely no.

Instead, he started running, and listened to the woman follow quickly, frantically, and swore to high heaven he would  _kill her_  if he damaged Sherlock’s form in any way.


	48. Chapter 48

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Love your writing!!! I was wondering if you could do the following prompt. Tony Stark is working on a SHIELD and MI6 joint project, and is surprised to discover that this Q person he has to work with is his cousin (Maria’s maiden name was Holmes). Love to see Coulson & Tanner commiserating each other. Some talk that the Holmes boys have a thing for blond soldiers. Johnlock, 00Q & Stony. Thank you sooo much! – party-in-the-blue-box

****

“They’re menaces.”

It could have been either man talking; Coulson was in the UK, once again, to babysit the formidable personage that was Tony Stark trying to collaborate with a collection of MI6 personnel which – it turned out –  _included_  a long-lost cousin and requisite collection of family members. Tanner was just trying to ensure nobody killed one another.

Easier said than done, quite frankly.

The Holmes boys were a nightmare enough on their own; the idea of multiples made Tanner’s head hurt at the best of times, which meant dealing with  _four_  – once Tony was counted – made him feel actively nauseous. Coulson empathised, and they spent a fairly long while drinking excessive quantities of caffeine, later alcohol, and swapping stories.

Meanwhile, the Holmes boys met up for a collective dinner in Baker Street. Mercifully sans Mycroft, but only because a nuclear threat cropped up and he had to go deal with it before half the world imploded; Stark and Captain America, Q and James Bond, and Sherlock with John Watson, all went out for dinner.

Steve and Bond got along famously: two very skilled soldiers for their respective countries, with all the zeal one might expect. John found them less easy to handle – zealotry having never been a huge thing for him – and instead turned interests in the direction of Sherlock and his extended family.

Tony was a bit of a nightmare.

Sherlock hated him.

Q was actually rather fond of the new arrival; he was intelligent, technologically gifted, evidently had the same smattering of arrogance Q himself fostered. Conversation was easy, and they succumbed to dipsomania quite happily and very quickly.

Sherlock and Tony nearly killed one another at one stage, but that was to be expected.

“I think we should order now,” Bond interjected in a weary tone at one point, and wondered just how bad the evening would get.


	49. Chapter 49

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi! This promp is about The Avengers, frostiron: Loki steals one of the golden apples from Asgard for Tony. After all, it would be a waste that such a being as his lover have such short life. Of course, Tony had no idea of the plans of Asgardian. – anon

Tony looked at it with nothing short of scepticism.

“No offence, but is this supposed to be this colour?” he grinned, all teeth and sarcasm.

Loki’s eyes were a sharp, glinting emerald. “Eat it,” he returned, a hiss, a low and almost-cruel sound, frightening to all but Tony who just smirked slightly.

“Honey, you’re doing the voice again,” he chastised, and took a bite; a moment, eyebrow raised. “Tastes funky too. Please don’t poison me again, I still haven’t got over last time.”

Loki watched, continued to watch, watched with terrifying intensity, and Tony knew there was  _something_  wrong but this was Loki, and he was nothing if not unpredictable and also loyal to a frankly frightening fault so really, Tony was quite content to let him do whatever he was doing and assume it would be alright in the end.

More accurately: assume it would  _not_  be alright, but be prepared for that eventuality.

Like being essentially abducted to Asgard.

“Anthony Stark.”

“Tony,” Tony corrected instantly, before guards practically  _drowned_  Loki. “No.  _Fuck_ no, let him go.”

Two men with serious daddy issues: Loki had become very pliant, his smile now of that frightening strain he got when he needed to maintain a façade he couldn’t begin to grasp. Tony knew that look, knew it all too well, and had spent far too long trying to heal the God of Chaos from a lifetime of hurt for this to throw him back now.

Loki had reached apathy, lethal smile, throwing out calm arrogances in a way Tony had learnt when he was a child, and then Tony Stark – a mortal Midgardian – met Odin Allfather.

It was turning into a fucked-up day, overall.

“It isn’t precisely wrong,” Loki was purring, in that tone that spoke volumes, hate simmering with hurt and that desperate, clawing  _need_  to not be ignored, not be diminished for no evident reason, not to be irrelevant. To impress. To be understood. “It is not indefinite. It is merely a chance for me to not suffer any further loss.”

Odin was  _shouting_ , and Loki was flinching slightly. Not visibly, but his voice, his body language was sinking with immense slowness. “Somebody want to tell me what’s going on?” Tony asked, in his longest drawl possible.

All eyes turned, and Loki smiled in a way that was genuine,  _relieved_. His Loki back, for however long. “We do not need your input, Midgardian,” Odin told him dismissively.

“I’m here, aren’t I?” he asked flippantly, strolling forward, much to the absolute confusion of the surrounding guards. “You got me here, so why?”

“ _He_ ,” Odin said lividly, pointing at Loki, whose smile faded back, “gave you a golden apple of Asgard. The means of our immortality, our youth.”

Tony gave Odin a pointed look up and down, and quirked his mouth into a smile. “Yeah,” he said simply, very slowly.

“It is only temporary,” Loki supplemented, gaze steady, caught with Tony’s. “Simply extending a little. A few more years. A little longer to spend with my Midgardian. Thor has his female, I have him. You would grant Thor this, you know that. He will ask, soon enough. You would not have granted this to me.”

“You are a disgrace to Asgard…”

Loki’s eyes were sharp, and Tony shook his head sharply before Loki could make a potentially devastating mistake. “I have caused no harm in the realms since my liberty was granted,” he explained softly. “Asgard thrives. The elongated life of a single Midgardian is of no detriment.”

Tony smiled slightly, eyebrow crooked.  _You idiot. You couldn’t have told me. I’m in goddamn Asgard because of you._

Loki smiled straight back – Tony’s smile, the right smile – and Tony moved towards him, letting their fingers twine simply and easily, facing down the ruler of the nine realms, the oddest duo one could envisage.


	50. Chapter 50

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Skyfall prompt, Q is mentally unstable, has been for a long time. M(female) takes care of him, lives @ her house, etc. Tanner is understanding, Bond is like wtf?. Kinda really want the pairing to be Q/M(weird I know) but is not a must. No crack please! Ur fics from everyone’s prompts r awesome btw! – kurama247

Q’s eyes remained locked with M’s, lips slightly parted, breathing half-sporadically and trying not to whimper as panic thrummed in his nerves and M remained utterly impassive, watching a boy who suddenly looked half his age sob frantically and try to calm down as best he could.

“What’s going on?” Bond asked drily, while Q’s lips flitted and the trembling gradually began to recede, and he let his head spin until he finally stopped, finally calmed and stopped and stilled. “M? Q?!”

M didn’t look away from Q, expression still neutral, but somehow gentle. “Bond, please remain quiet,” she said calmly. “Our Quartermaster needs a moment. Is Tanner around?”

Bond blinked, glanced out to the door. “Just outside,” Bond returned slowly. “Why?”

“He will explain,” M told him, tone calmly informing him that he needed to absent himself. “Leave now, please, Bond.”

A heartbeat before the door closed, Bond heard a caught gasp, a lost sound that could only have come from Q and this did  _not_  make any bloody sense given that they were in  _Q’s office_  and it had always been Q’s domain, it was where Q was the flippant and arrogant and ridiculous half-teenager that Bond was getting used to, gradually.

Tanner all but hauled him out. “Bond, Q is a very unique individual. He has pre-existing problems that M is used to dealing with; they have known each other far longer than you could begin to appreciate. It is not your concern. Leave them both well enough alone.”

It was difficult to. Q was a good friend, M was… well, M was many things, but Bond had no names for any of them and it was probably best that he didn’t try to apply arbitrary titles to it. “Tanner, are they both alright?”

Tanner looked him up and down, sighed slightly. “No,” he replied honestly. “But they haven’t been for quite a while. There are more things in heaven and earth, as they say.”

Bond glanced towards the door, aware that somewhere inside, two people he knew nothing of were going through something he could never understand, and he could never hope to truly intrude on that.

“They’re fine,” Tanner completed, tone a little gentler. “Just let it be. Let them be.”


	51. Chapter 51

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Can I ask for Moneypenny/Anthea? I adore these ladies and I would be happy with anything, be it friendship,love or really anything. – anon

Mycroft was busy shouting at M. Or vice versa. Nobody really knew, and nobody was really prepared to enquire, if they were being quite honest about it.

The respective secretaries – which they were not, but were colloquially known as for reasons best known to misogyny – were outside, on their various technological devices, waiting and getting rather bored with the proceedings, and engaging in various avenues of conversation with one another.

They knew each other rather well, actually. They had done for a while, and what had started as relatively stilted conversation over Anthea’s phone and Eve’s boredom had progressed into rather sarcastic exchanges that had developed a lightness and connectedness that moving into the realms of something far more intimate.

It was very slow, of course. The pair did not socialise much outside of their occasional run-ins at MI6 or other functions, but a Christmas party had allowed both of them a moment’s grace – and thus, a drunken kiss.

Now, they were restoring what remained of their sanity and relationship, and working out – without actually mentioning the moment – what they were going to do next.

Anthea’s eyes were bright, and truly, electrically alive.

Eve’s were more cautious. She had always been with men, traditionally. The concept of being with a woman was odd, to say the least. Not unpleasant, merely odd.

They didn’t discuss it head-on. They discussed it through a strange semi-proxy type of arrangement, wherein Anthea smiled out of the side of her mouth and Eve was oddly still, curious, watching.

Anthea’s hand fell onto Eve’s, and they talked about work and about home, about being alone in a way that was understated and a little sad, but not destroyed, not at all. Not yet, at least. There was a chance that the loneliness would kill one day, and Anthea knew that better than any, had watched a man she deeply respected fall into that precise trap for reasons that were spurious at best and ridiculous at worst, and so Eve listened and Anthea coaxed and their fingers laced in a quiet form of connection that would not survive labelling just yet.

“I won’t ask anything of you.”

Eve raised an eyebrow, and her voice was dry and teasing. “I wouldn’t give it if you only  _asked_  it of me,” she said fairly. “I don’t know if I want…”

Anthea nodded, cutting her off, Eve’s voice trailing away. “Just think?” she asked, as her several-times-accursed phone started ringing. “I’d better get that.”

“Would you like a drink, tonight?”

Anthea already had the phone to her ear, talking quickly, calm and level but insistent in speed, and Eve watched with something like admiration, and realised – with a dart of disappointment – that Anthea hadn’t heard her step into the unknown, hadn’t seen that she had bitten back  _everything_  in a hiccupped moment of bravery.

It was too frightening, to contemplate asking again, to swallow back the fear another time.

Eve let it slide, and vaguely wondered  _what if_ , as Mycroft stormed out of M’s office and Eve replaced him, leaving Anthea behind.


	52. Chapter 52

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Could we have a really cute fic where Q sets up DenchM with wifi and a secure network etc at her flat and have her not understanding what’s going on with the whole thing? – madwriterscorner

Q rolled his shoulders, and let out a long exhale. “Alright,” he said, with a fair amount of calm. “I think that should just about cover it.”

There were few things more frightening than being in one’s boss’s home, with the acute and immediate awareness that he knew too much and was going to end up causing chaos because she did  _not_  know how anything worked, and Q was going to have to talk one of the most dangerous people alive through how to work the WIFI network.

“Your password is on this card,” he told her, passing over said laminated card. “I have securitised the network so you should have no issues with hacking, it will be a secure line through to MI6 databases. If anything goes wrong, key in control, shift, and press F12 three times – it will link through to me, and I will deal with it remotely.”

M just looked at him, spectacularly unimpressed with the entire proceedings. “Would you care to talk me through this properly?” she told him crisply.

Q swallowed, nodded, moved to her side and opened the laptop.

Thus followed a good twenty-minute discussion of how to access the central network menus, which was definitely one of the more purgatorial events of Q’s life to date. “I don’t suppose I could get a cup of tea?” he asked weakly, after trying to explain the access to the network for the fifth time.

M shot him one of the most frightening looks Q had ever witnessed. He swallowed.

He  _really_  wanted tea.

It had to be said, the main issue with M was more that she wanted information far beyond what she actually needed to know, which made the general understanding quite a lot trickier. A few hours, and Q had essentially explained aspects of computing that he hadn’t needed to really revise in a number of years; things he knew almost instinctively after so many years, and yet were alien to M herself.

“Thank you, Quartermaster,” she said at the end, when all was done, and Q was just about considering himself dismissed and was really more than ready for tea and a stiff drink. “This has been more informative. Would you like a drink?”

Q smiled slightly, torn between righteous fear and the general fact that he liked M. She was intelligent and sharp, a very inspiring figure in MI6, and it had been a rather enjoyable few hours. “That would be nice,” he admitted, and accepted the scotch she poured healthily into two tumblers. “Thank you, M.”

M dipped her head, and knocked back scotch with the ease of one well-accustomed, eying her laptop with a look of interest and pride that Q understood only too well.


	53. Chapter 53

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heyyyy you’re amazing can you do a fic with lots of domestic fluff please :) xx – anon

"You’re late!" Tiago called, frying pan in one hand and bottle of wine in the other as he continued the risotto.

"Some of us work," Mycroft Holmes replied, hanging his coat over the bannister. He had begun dating the spy a year ago after a chance meeting.

Extravagant, camp, and  _obnoxiously_  Spanish; the pair had hated each other almost instantly, and fell into bed three days later.

And, as Mycroft would later muse, the man was at least a truly  _exceptional_  cook.

Tiago offered the wine over his shoulder, Mycroft rolling his eyes as the fact that his partner had been drinking white wine  _out of the bottle_  like the Spanish Neanderthal he often was. “Do we not own glasses?”

"Oh you’re no fun," Tiago replied, leaning backwards and stealing a kiss from his somewhat surprised partner. Mycroft had never been one for much physical contact, and Tiago’s easy intimacy was still requiring a touch of adjustment from time to time.

Mycroft peered over the hob, eyes narrowed slightly, voice easy and trilling slightly. “No – I just prefer not to get wine all over the floor. Smells excellent, by the way.”

Tiago winked, tongue out petulantly. “Of course it does, I’m cooking it,” he grinned, rolling his eyes slightly. “And I  _do_  work.”

"Of course you do," Mycroft teased, retreating to the side and retrieving plates. "You are just doing an excellent impression of a good housewife, getting my dinner ready when I come in…"

"Well next time I’ll do it in heels.  _Just_  heels,” Tiago returned, sorely tempted to flick rice onto the back of Mycroft’s jacket, head cocked slightly to one side as he watched the man take things from cupboards, testing the risotto with a generally appreciative expression.

Mycroft twisted in time to see Tiago look away mockingly. “Careful, I will take you up on that offer,” Mycroft told the man, not missing a beat as he laid the table. “Now tell me we have some good wine, not that cheap plonk?”

Tiago laughed outright. “You live with me, we have good wine,” he assured the other man, nodding at the bags; Mycroft watched them with deep distrust, extracting a bottle, and discovering that it  _was_  decent stuff, which begged the question as to why on  _earth_  Tiago had been taunting him with essentially piss in a bottle. “Mycroft, querido, it’s cooking wine. So much for my brilliant man, mmn? I wait all day, I make a delicious meal for you…”

Mycroft’s expression was somewhere between amused and belligerent, leaning in slightly. “Yes, yes, and when you vanish off around the world for weeks on end?”

"I always come back," Tiago replied lightly, rubbing soft circles into Mycroft’s back, running a hand gently through his hair.

An odd quiet, and Mycroft let out a soft breath. “And if you don’t?”

"Then you will be waiting a while," Tiago replied, pulling back to return attention to his cooking.

Mycroft was very still, very quiet, and knew there was no point in pressing the subject – he opened a decent wine, and let other thoughts slide away from him.


	54. Chapter 54

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi Jex! ^^ Lately I’m in the mood for some Avengers. I can have some Tony/Loki? Loki perhaps mentally controlled by Thanos at the Battle of NY, please? – bondlock83

“… I’ll have that drink now.”

Tony was the first to relax slightly, simply because he recognised it better than anybody. Master at facades, and proudly so, and it takes one to know one and shit, but the god of chaos was a mess.

Hawkeye was tense, obviously, and refused to put down the bow; Tony rolled his eyes slightly, and let Thor wrench his brother upwards, cuffing him easily. “I…”

“Not a word, brother,” Thor told him gruffly. “You have done enough damage.”

Bruce was quietly deflating now the tension had diffused, and Tony grinned at him, waved. “Hey Rapunzel – can I have a sec with the wicked queen here?”

Thor seemed entirely confused for a moment, before seeing Tony’s gesturing. “Beware his tricks,” he warned, while Hawkeye’s tension ramped up a notch, and he all but bared his teeth at the suddenly very  _small_  god.

“He threw me out a window, I’m pretty wary,” Tony returned, a trademark grin.

All retreated, and Tony watched the kid watch him, tired green eyes – and he could have sworn they were blue before – blinking a little too languidly. He was good, damn good, but Afghanistan and pain still riddled Tony’s nightmares, and it was too much to hide from one who knew. “Your eyes have changed colour. You know that, right?”

“Yes,” Loki replied, quite calmly.

Silence, for several minutes. “Thor’s taking you back to Asgard, right?”

“I will be dead before I get there,” Loki told him, still with delicate calm. “Thor cannot see a foot in front of him. He was never likely to discern something as complex as this, nor is he willing to believe it.”

Tony cocked his head, grinned. “Try me.”

Interestingly, Loki looked a little more… alive, all of a sudden. There was something like a smile that lingered in the very corner of his mouth, a suggestion rather than a fact, and he spoke with a lightness and almost dancing quality that Tony found himself rather entranced by. “The Tesseract possessed your archer,” Loki told him, “and Selvig. None of you began to anticipate that even one as strong as myself may be unable to break the forms of magic that the Tesseract possesses. Thor almost knew. He certainly tried.”

Tony didn’t quite follow, but kinda liked following the story. “So what, you can’t control it?”

“I never could, and I never did,” Loki told him, and colour touched the height of his cheekbones. Anger, loathing. “I fell from Asgard, and was placed under the control of a power more profound than my own. I found myself unable to resist.”

“Whoever it was. They tortured you.”

Loki’s eyes were sharp and livid and lethally vulnerable, and he watched for a long moment, and Tony watched back without apology. “You know,” Loki said, with a curious little emphasis, and it covered everything: Tony knew  _everything_. He knew what happened, he knew what torture could do, he knew Loki’s secrets. He  _knew_.

“I guess,” Tony shrugged, and his smile was a little sadder now. “So. What now?”

Loki didn’t say a word.


	55. Chapter 55

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Was reading your bondlock prompt fills, the ficlet of Q being jealous of Bond/Sherlock & bitter about missing his chance really stood out to me. I’d love for a similar scenario/continuation of that verse, with Q/Irene (eg. breaking into the camera phone would’ve gone very differently & Miss Adler finds great sub potential in our little hacker) – anon

It took Q three minutes to get into the phone, two of which he had spent mocking it.

Irene Adler watched, with a mixture of awe and horror, as he picked apart her life in quite spectacular style. “Please, brother; next time something of this nature comes up - remember which of us you should contact first,” Q mocked, tossing the phone to Mycroft as Sherlock fumed.

"Noted," Mycroft replied, scanning through the phone as Sherlock sneered, transparently petulant.

Irene stared at the boy she had entirely,  _stupidly_ , dismissed. “How… how did you do that?”

"Magician, tricks, etc," Q replied, already grasping at his own phone as he headed out of the room. "Sunday?" he asked, and both his siblings groaned a little at the apparent prospect.

"Sunday. If you are still in your odd vegetarian phase, please bring something else,” Mycroft informed him, somewhat unsurprised at Q flicking him the finger.

"I’m busy," Sherlock said simply, standing to follow Q out.

"Am I invited?" Irene asked, swallowing slightly, attempting bravado.

"Oddly no," Mycroft told her drily.

Sherlock smirked. “Oh, I think mummy would love her.”

"Hilarious," Mycroft muttered after them, as his brothers left the room.

Mycroft and Irene stared at one another, in absolute silence, for nearly a full minute.

"I believe I am ready to make a deal, Mr Holmes," she told him, leaning back in her chair contentedly.

"A deal? Ms Adler, you have nothing to bargain with," Mycroft replied, with an air of mild amusement.

“I wouldn’t say that…” Irene replied, watching him intently, her smile subtle and light. “I know people, I know their looks, I know what they  _like._  I  _definitely_  know where your interests lie.”

"Excuse me?" Mycroft asked, with the slightest edge of tension crawling into his tone. "If you are attempting to imply…"

"No need to worry, Mr Holmes - your secret is safe with me," Irene swore, now well into Mycroft’s personal space. "As long as you do as I ask."

“You have nothing tangible.”

Irene’s smile was quiet, understated almost. “I don’t need it,” she told him frankly.

Mycroft couldn’t argue.

"I’m not asking for much. My immunity, and – if you would – another meeting with the delightful creature who hacked my phone.”

"Q? Why?" Mycroft asked, in honest perturbation, folding his legs as he looked her over. " _Oh_.”

Irene’s red lips quirked in an easy smile. “Quite. He’d look delightful on his knees, don’t you think?” she suggested, leaning back against the table, luxuriating in the image. “I bet he’d beg beautifully, all those crisp consonants…”

“That’s really quite enough. The authorities will be here shortly, Ms Adler.”

Irene’s eyes were bright and alive, eloquent.”Thank you, Mr Holmes, this really has been a most enlightening session,” she smiled, standing up, looking briefly and somewhat pointedly at Mycroft’s groin. “If you were ever inclined, my rates are rather reasonable.”

“ _Out.”_


	56. Chapter 56

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You ladies are awesome as usual. I just thought of this prompt and hope you will be up to it. James knew M’s family as he was practically one of her own. Now he has to tell Molly that her mum is dead, and he hates hurting his little sister. Bonus for Q being baby Holmes. — party-in-the-blue-box

Morgues had never been a favoured place for him. At ten he had been taken down to identify two bodies, at MI6 that had continued ever since. At one point he had even woken up in one.

"Thank you for coming," Bond said to his colleague, as Q leaned against the table.

The Quartermaster shrugged, smiling slightly.  ”No one should be alone to do this.”

Bond nodded as Molly came over, three cups in her hand. At the sight of Q she almost dropped them. “Oh god, you’re…” she looked at him, eyes slightly wide as Q chuckled. “… sorry, I thought you were someone else for a moment.”

Q couldn’t resist a slight smirk. “I get that a lot,” he noted.

"James," Molly rushed to him, hugging the man tightly as he winced. "Sorry. Shot again?"

"Just jumped into a lake. All fun," Bond assured her, pulling back and looking her up and down. "How’s the man?"

"None of your business," she replied, a little primly, briefly looking to Q with something like surprise.

"Sorry, I never got your name, or if I did I’ve forgotten. In which case I am sorry. And sorry for nearly spilling tea across you," she managed, as Q continued to smile slightly.

"Q," he offered a hand.

Molly smiled, and extended a hand out. “My Quartermaster,” Bond supplemented.

Molly’s eyes widened slightly. “Oh you are  _very_  young,” she commented. “Not that that’s a bad thing, I mean, so am I, I just…”

Bond mercifully saved her from further embarrassment through a simple introduction: “Molly Hooper”.

"What brings you two here?" she asked, quite brightly.

It only took a moment. Molly, for all her faults, was shockingly observant; a simple exchanged glance, and her entire being contracted slightly. “Oh,” she murmured.

Bond reached out to her, hand on her arm. “Molly, I am so sorry.”

"Did you," Molly looked down, fingers tensing on the cup. "Were you with her? And did… was it quick?"

Bond couldn’t quite lie. “Not too long, but longer than I would have liked,” he admitted. “He’s dead. I can let you examine the corpse, if you like?”

"It’s alright," Molly murmured.

All three sat in silence.

"It’s how she wanted to go," Molly told the room at large, breathing deeply as she tried to steady her thoughts. "She never wanted an office job."

Bond pretended not to see the slight flick of Q’s eyes towards him at the comment. The understanding.

They all knew.

"Is there anything I can do for you?" Bond asked, softening a little as Molly stood up.

"Could you erm." Another deep breath. "Could you stay here. For a bit?" She asked. "I’ve still got some work to do…"

"I’m sure they’ll be fine if you want to go home…”

"No, no I have work. I’ll go home when it’s done. But James, if you could…?"

Bond nodded, seating himself behind one of the desks. “For as long as you need me,” he replied quietly, exchanging a look with Q, as his Quartermaster slipped out of the room.


	57. Chapter 57

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sotty, it’s been a while since I read a Marvel fill and it’s killing me waiting for Thor 2. How about if instead of Pepper is Loki the Tony’s PA and inevitably ends emerging the romance between them? Something fun and sarcastic would be great. – anon

Tony figured he should probably have some words with Loki, at some stage.

The damned man was sitting on his sofa, feet on the arm, almost entirely horizontal as he clicked through various options on a very lovely smartphone and talked with quietly bored amusement to whoever was at the other end. “… absolutely no interest. Yes. Thank you, but we are now entirely finished here. Yes. Superb. Goodbye.”

Loki rolled his eyes, tossed a hand back dramatically, and cast it over his eyes.

“Loki,” Tony asked, with dry interest. “Wanna tell me what the hell that was?”

Loki attempted to wave him away, sighing slightly. “The Argentina deal,” he replied lightly, and threw the very-expensive-smartphone across the room.

“You have  _got_  to stop doing that,” Tony whined, rolling his eyes. “Hon, those things are  _expensive_.”

“And?” Loki asked elaborately, hand briefly circling in the air before collapsing back down by his side. “Tony, you are shockingly rich, and I am shockingly bored, and they are shockingly moronic. You do not need them. I made an executive decision.”

Tony was honestly reaching the end of his beliefs; Loki was bizarre, absolutely bizarre. “Alright – that doesn’t mean you trash things because you can. Be nice. And don’t be rude to Argentina, they could be useful.”

“No,” Loki returned immediately. “Absolutely not. Not any longer – they’re rather irate.”

A deep breath, a slow exhale. “Jarvis, can you send out a Loki-apology to Argentina?”

“Negative, sir – Loki has blocked that standing order.”

“Jarvis, I have priority!”

Hearing an AI be quite so apologetic was just odd, really. “Sir, Loki has amended some of my inputs – unfortunately, Loki now holds equal sway over my command systems. I cannot fulfil your requirements.”

“Loki,  _give me back Jarvis_.”

Loki looked delightfully unrepentant. “Do not send anything to the Argentinians, and I will relinquish my control over Jarvis.”

“ _Now_.”

“Do we have an understanding?” Loki repeated, so bloody calm it was tempting to slap him, just to see what would happen.

Tony crossed his arms over his chest. “Fine,” he muttered. “No emails to Argentina. Understood.”

Loki grinned, all teeth, and looked ceilingwards. “Jarvis, command 2A – control aspects to Tony Stark.”

“Yes, sir,” Jarvis agreed amicably, and – supposedly – control was passed straight back onto Tony.

It took Tony another two hours to realise that Jarvis was  _not_  supposed to be calling Loki ‘sir’. 


	58. Chapter 58

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Could you please fill this prompt? After all the flirting between Eve and James something finally happens between them and they sleep together? Bonus points if it’s nsfw – anon

Eve had been wholly adamant, initially, that she would not sleep with James Bond.

It was a pride matter, quite frankly. He was an eternal womaniser, and was not always very good at treating women as they deserved, with that – so she was somewhat reluctant, it had to be said.

He kissed with the warmth and intensity of the sun, and Eve fell into him without ever meaning to, without intending it, and didn’t regret it. He was extraordinary, and if nothing else, it was going to be a hell of a night.

Bond kissed her everywhere at once, taking her apart with extraordinary precision and perfect intensity, and Eve kissed him back and gave him hell because fuck, she could. “James, you are the most irritatingly addictive man I will probably ever encounter,” she commented.

Bond chuckled – bastard – and slid hands over her waist, the small of her back, manoeuvring her and she let him, before abruptly tugging him down, letting him fall and catch himself millimetres from her face, and she grinned before kissing him senseless. “I should never try and predict you, should I?”

“No,” Eve agreed, with a purr, and bit down on his lower lip slightly; he hissed a little, and his grip turned a little harder, territorial. “Hey now, somebody getting annoyed?”

“Fuck you, Eve.”

“Please do,” she agreed with a laugh, and her hand slid to cup Bond’s groin, her grin still extraordinary. “Oh, superb. Excited, hmm?”

Bond shook his head, slightly disbelieving of her sheer gall; her fingers traced across him, cupping him as he started to harden, and she smiled with something like satisfaction and hummed out a somewhat patronising approval. “You’re lethal, Moneypenny.”

Her laugh was extraordinary, her hand tipping into his trousers altogether, watching his eyes widen and dilate, blackening, contracting. The sense of power was profound and absolute, and she couldn’t quite bring herself to regret it.

“You have no idea.”


	59. Chapter 59

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I haven’t seen very many Avengers prompts…" I’m crying because my prompts never never get a fill :( I’d really like to see a frostiron fill yours, Loki and Tony meet in Kindergarten with Tony soon becomes possessive of Loki, the classic «Mine». Anyways, I love all your works, thanks for it. – anon

The boy looked very sad.

Tony understood. Sadness happens. Lots of sadness, sometimes, and it can’t always be hidden quietly but has to sit on the surface of the skin. Tony understood.

They didn’t really talk much. Loki – Tony got the name out of him with a cookie –  _cool name_  – was very  _very_  quiet, and Tony liked to make things, and so Loki would stay and watch and fiddle  _no mine_  fiddle _no_  fiddle  _wait_  fiddle _how_  fiddle  _you’re clever_  yes and so very  _very_  quickly, Tony took him.

Loki was his. All his. Clever and understood things.

“Are you a friend?” Loki asked at one stage.

His voice was  _amazing_. Light and like ice cream, and sounded like the Queen but a boy. “Yes,” Tony replied, quite adamant. “More than  _Thor_.”

Loki grimaced, and giggled slightly; Thor was his Big Brother, and he was stupid. Really stupid. Really nice, but really stupid, and Tony thought he was very funny and Loki didn’t like him, so they agreed that they would be friends and Thor wouldn’t be.

Tony had stolen Loki.

Teachers worked it out too. Tony and Loki played together, ate together, fought together. Tony would make things out of Lego, and Loki would do  _something_  that would make Tony gasp and ask quick questions, and Loki would smile out of the corner of his mouth, actually smile, and so would Tony.

It was nice to see them both actually  _happy_. Neither had any idea how to be around _‘normal children’_ , but that didn’t seem to phase them much; they happily worked out how to make a Lego slingshot travel the entire length of the playground – and on one occasion, everybody could have  _sworn_  the pair had ice cubes and nobody knew how they had got there – but that was alright. It was all alright.

“Loki, we must go home.”

Thor towered. He was twice Loki’s size and then some; older, but more importantly, the type of well-built kid who did sports and was popular and loud and essentially the antithesis of his pale and near-silent younger brother. “I don’t want to.”

“He’s coming home with me,” Tony told him, stepping in.

Thor looked utterly confused. “Loki…”

“He’s my friend,” Loki told him calmly, standing, positioning himself a half-inch behind Tony and readying himself, body mimicking an adult’s pose. “Go away, Thor.”

Thor looked over them, before sweeping an extremely alarmed Tony into a bear hug. “A friend of my brother’s is my friend,” he boomed – quite hilariously, given that he was barely six – and let him go.

Thor sauntered off, and Tony watched, grinning.

“I like him.”

Loki hit him over the head with a plastic cup.


	60. Chapter 60

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I read your FAQ, but I’m still a little nervous *blushes*. D’you reckon that you could write a Loki selfcest fic? I know that he’s really good at cloning himself, and maybe he could use his cool powers for ‘mischief and mayhem.’ PWP is probably best :) Thank you so much! – doityourself-epicness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW

It wasn’t quite narcissism.

Alright, it was. Pure ego, the purest form, the understanding of a mimicked body and it’s quirks, the enjoyment and revelry in something no other could begin to achieve, in knowing the secrets of the self that the rest of the Nine Realms could never begin to grasp.

Green eyes sparked electric, and the kisses were warm and hot and icy cold, the Jotun blood boiling and turning skin the frostiest edge of blue, a suggestion and promise, delicate patterning that stained blood and made every touch new.

How it feels, to be touched by a creature like Loki Laufeyson. To burn and freeze and become alive.

His double scored teeth marks into his bottom lip, and Loki laughed and pushed back, fought back, both of them knowing the other too well, too intimately, the dance a frenetic motion that culminated in bodies on the bed, ripping clothing away from identical bodies ( _Loki didn’t clone the scars, but that was alright, that was alright_ ) and exploring, worshipping.

For a moment, Loki was the centre of a world.

Both were.

Loki’s erection swelled and hardened, and the creature beneath him teased, eyes glittering with  _seiðr_  and coaxing, daring  _mine, you are mine_  and the kisses drew tangs of brief metal and oxygen blood  _yours_  mingling and fingers played against the edges of Loki’s  _ours_  entrance, sliding and pressing and one crowing and the other moaning and switching, touching, playing.

“Fuck me,” Loki growled, voice perfectly constructed, syllables crisp and undistorted. “ _Now_.”

The other agreed with a curious smile and lightness, not giving too much, playing his copy into a half-delirium and swallowing him down, bringing out cries, sinking in, groans and lower music, their voices tangling and bouncing angrily off one another.

It was  _gorgeous_.

Loki looped heels around the other’s back, bringing him deeper, and Loki laughed and obligingly thrust harder, faster, taking out the hurt that lived under his skin on himself but without damage, without notice, wrecking and breaking and wanting and _living_ , this was living, just for a moment  _this_  was living.

Orgasm ripped through the pair in near-enough tandem, music turning vile and discordant.

The other shimmered out of existence.

Loki stared at the ceiling, not-quite sated and grasping for more, eyes sliding shut.


	61. Chapter 61

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys. Great jobs on the prompts. You think you can take another? Ever since I watched the Avengers, I can’t help thinking about Ariel from the Tempest being the “power” inside that cube thing. I don’t know! I just really want an ethereal Q. I don’t know how you figure Bond in in the story but I would love if he was there. – anon

The tesseract sought out a home. An Asgardian device with too much history, and nowhere to be, nowhere to remain; it needed freedom, escape.

The spirit had been locked away so many winters ago. It howled in the cold and screamed out for its freedom, the liberty barred since before time itself, the cruelty of a woman angry and now, within the diminishing circles that existed within a cube, Ariel remained.

Q looked curiously, and his fingers closed around it.

Ariel only needed a true host form, something to draw him out; possessing a body was easy, simple. There were only limited creatures in any world that could truly liberate him, take him away rather than simply let him borrow a body and wreak whatever revenge he could on a world that hadn’t managed to even notice his absence.

Then, he was  _there_.

Ariel lifted himself out, and found himself filling the hollows of a lonely boy, a brilliant man. He slipped into the gaps of a human being and made his home there, and Q – the man who had once been Q – merged and blended and became the same, they were one and Ariel, wandering spirit, was  _alive_.

Bond didn’t understand, but it was alright; Q waited and watched and Ariel too, body sliding in and out of being, of touch and sense and there-ness, and Bond held onto Q’s hand with the tentative touch of an almost-lover and tried and failed to understand.

It was okay. Q had never expected him to.

Power now bubbled beneath the surface of Q’s skin. It slid through veins and lit up everything, the brush of skin forming an electric response, so beautiful, so immediate.

Their bodies and brains fused, and Q slid in and out of the air and sky, the light playing over him, and he sighed out song in half-snatches, and Bond held his hand.


	62. Chapter 62

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I didn’t realize you wrote Stony so I’m just going to leave a prompt here in case you have the time for it. Steve and Tony have been dating for a while. Well, Tony thought they were, apparently Steve didn’t get the memo. Steve panics and tells him there is nothing between them. Tony gets in an accident and loses his memory. Steve gets what he wants, but… Thanks a bunch! Take care! :) – dreamandslash

Tony looked sad when he slept.

Perhaps an odd thought, but Steve had been given a decent scope for thought in recent days, so it seemed apt that he would linger on something that  _didn’t_  make him think about the obvious.

Tony had looked utterly devastated, in the way only Tony Stark could; it lived in the back of his eyes, masked over by hate and rage and flippant sarcasm and a sideways grin that was a little bit manic, and Steve had been very still for a moment and waited for an outburst that never came.

Instead, Tony had gone out drinking. Things had degenerated. Tony Stark had been found the next morning with a head injury, been unconscious, woke up with amnesia.

Now, Steve was left with the understanding that he had lost Tony in every conceivable way, and had no way of making sense of that.

Tony hadn’t changed entirely. Bits and pieces were gone; Steve, most of the Avengers, some of his more admirable character traits. Some of the acquired tact of age and experience had notably vanished.

Steve missed him like hell.

They certainly no longer had a relationship. That much, at least, was as expected and as predicted and as it supposedly should have been, had  _always_  been. They were not together. Tony treated him as a friend he seemed particularly fond of, flirted like hell and was antagonistic as fuck, but there was nothing more than that.

Steve couldn’t help but wonder how Tony had ever wanted him in the first place, quite frankly, and had never been so disillusioned in his entire life; love at first sight didn’t exist, this was evidence enough. Tony didn’t love him any more, didn’t even show _signs_  of doing so.

Instead, Steve watched a man he had cared for – loved, he had to concede it at some stage, he had to make it have happened at least once, once upon a time – be nothing like he remembered, be nothing like Steve wished he was.

“You alright, Cap?”

The smile was only the slightest bit forced. “As ever, Stark.”


	63. Chapter 63

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey girls! I have seen you do different fandoms and I have one little request, hope you will do it in a future. Cherik. Charles once reads Erick’s mind and he finds out that Erick is in love with him. The end is up to you. Thanks :) – anon

Of all the people, he tended to stay out of Erik’s mind. That was a private place, a place that he had no business of being. A few tricks now and again, or if it was really necessary, but Charles didn’t want to make a habit of it; it would have been awful manners.

Yet recently, Erik had been so reticent, so distant.

The pair had been working together for a few months now, and at first, it had been a wonderful friendship. They would debate long into the evening, topics ranging from philosophy to biology. Erik was also one of the few people Charles had ever met that could best him at chess.

Charles sat, watching his friend as they sat opposite each other, chess board between them. Erik toyed with his piece, fingers running over the small figurine. He didn’t often speak of his past, of his time under the Nazis, and Charles knew better than to ask. Nevertheless, his behaviour was frankly worrying.

Making up his mind, Charles paused, reaching out with his mind. He did so quietly, trying not to alert the other man to his presence.

_Can I tell him? Stupid, ruining everything._

Charles hesitated; whatever this was, it was private.

_He’s looking, why is he looking? He looks beautiful like that… no, stop it, don’t ruin this_

Charles managed just to stop himself from blushing. It couldn’t be. He had long since stamped down on any hope of a relationship with the other man, assuming Erik to be neither interested nor an appropriate choice of partner.

But then, he couldn’t help wondering  _if_.

_You could have picked anyone, anyone, and you fall for him. There is no point torturing yourself… move the knight…_

Charles could feel his mouth going dry, jaw slack as he looked, really  _looked,_  at his friend.

_Why is he still…? Charles?_

Erik looked at him, their eyes locking. Charles felt his mouth open and close, no words coming. The room seemed to hold its breath as the pair stared. Without another word, Erik stood, picked up his coat and left.

Closing his eyes, Charles allowed his head to fall to his hands. It was not his place. He had no right. He never word.


	64. Chapter 64

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I can’t remember if you do Avengers and it doesn’t show on my phone, so ignore this if you don’t do Avengers, but I’d love a fic where Loki’s punishment from Odin is to be a slave in Asgard, but there’s no smut. It seems like everywhere I see this AU it gets really NSFW really fast and I’d rather read one that doesn’t go so far as that. – anon

He refused to bow his head as they stripped him of his robes. Poorly fitting, rough fabric replaced his finery, cuffs placed around his wrists. His hair, now around his shoulders was cut to the standard length, leaving his ears exposed.

"Will you not look at me? Does my very presence disgrace you?" Loki mocked as his brother finished, placing his garments into a box. Not burning them, then. How kind.

Thor did not reply, it was not his place to. Loki was led away, through the palace gates for all to see. There was no booing, nothing thrown, no angry mobs in the streets. Silence. He was no longer a figure worthy of their concern, of their voices. He was nothing. And that was so much worse.

To be hated was to be known, better infamous than invisible. Now, he was like any other prisoner. Only he held his head higher.

"You will be placed in individual quarters," a guardsman informed him. "For your own protection."

Loki didn’t bother replying; that much was obvious. With the cuffs preventing any form of magic, he would not stand a chance against the larger slaves. His room was little more than a cupboard, a mat on the floor for sleeping and a small storage unit for clothing. To wash he would have to use the communal washroom; he shuddered at the thought, expression crinkling at the sheer humiliation.

Day one began at sunrise. Loki awoke to the knock on his cell. His body ached, neck sore from sleeping on the collar - his only constant companion. The washroom was half full; he looked back coolly to any stares he received, before returning to his cell to dress.

Culinary duties. Cleaning, given that they certainly wouldn’t trust him with knives yet. The work was meaningless, brain rotting.

With s smirk, Loki took part in his favourite hobby: eavesdropping.

By the end of his first morning, he had enough gossip to ensure he was given a slightly more interesting afternoon.

It took him little more than a week to be given personal valet positions, working with the finer trades, collecting items, even crafting them at points; unbearably boring, but a slight respite from the utter monotony of other menial tasks.

As with all things: even the most degrading, most absurd situations simply requires a little manoeuvring.

Time would pass, and Loki smiled to himself. He could endure.

Oh, but his revenge would be  _extraordinary_.


	65. Chapter 65

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi! You are incredible writers, keep up the good work! I have a prompt for you! Q and Tony Stark know each other (how is up to you) and SHIELD find out. They ask Tony to recruit Q, because they don’t realise that he works for MI6, but just know that he’s awesome. I’d love for there to be some ridiculous offers to entice him away, and for it to not be the first time somebody’s tried to recruit him!

“ _Hello._ ”

Q turned around, Skype blinking at him in annoying bright orange, Tony Stark’s face blaring out of the screen.

"Stark?" Q greeted with a nod, smirking over his tea cup.

Tony leant back from the camera, unapologetically showing off his new armoury. “How is my second favourite little genius?”

"Working," Q replied, placing the mug down.

"Too busy for me?" Tony asked, spinning slightly on his chair, actively  _pouting_.

"Yes, as a matter of fact," Q replied, looking over at his other screens. "Unless New York is under threat again?"

Tony grinned, abruptly looking worryingly excited. “And if it was? Hypothetically.”

"Then I assume I would already be on the plane."

A dramatic sigh, and Tony leant back slightly. “True. Ok, so the world is not in danger…”

"… New York is not the world…”

"… Neither is London," Tony countered, triggering a small smirk from Q who tried, valiantly hard, to hide it. “Anyway. Look kid, SHIELD know we know each other.”

Finally, they had reached the actual crux of the matter. “Okay,” Q returned, unapologetically suspicious. “Hit me with it.”

“They want to hire you.”

“Not interested.”

Tony sighed, expression crinkling with vague annoyance. “Come on. It’s good pay, they’re good people…”

“… ‘good’ is certainly relative…”

“And they’re gonna offer you a goddam  _insane_  pay check, like, I can’t begin to describe,” Tony continued to rattle off; Q just sighed, rolling his eyes and sincerely contemplating cutting the call before Tony got any more excitable. “Come on. Think about it.”

Q mocked contemplation. “ _No_.”

“Is this about the flying thing? Cos I could drug you…”

“ _Absolutely not_. It’s not about  _flying_ , it’s about my loyalties being elsewhere. Go away, Tone, I’m busy.”

Tony looked utterly devastated in a way only Tony Stark could manage, honest-to-god _pouting_  at the camera as though it was likely to entice Q in the slightest. “Is it the boyfriend?”

“ _Fuck off_.”

"Pretty,  _pretty_  please…”

“I don’t care if your ‘please’ is a leggy blonde with pneumatic tits, I’m still not working for SHIELD,” Q returned primly. “Shutting down the conversation. I’ll talk to you more later, if you’re going to stop being annoying.”

“Later, kid.”

The Skype window disappeared, and Q smirked to himself. “Arrogant bastard…”


	66. Chapter 66

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q is a Holmes… through marriage. He’s been married to Mycroft for a really long time but they keep it secret for many reasons, including a very large age difference; Mycroft is about twice Q’s age and Q was barely legal when they began dating. They also want to avoid people thinking Q got the job because of Mycroft and things like that. The story leaks somehow and what happens after is for you to decide, but awesome!Bond&Alec please, they really like their Quartermaster :) TIA! <3

Q rolled his shoulders, cracking audible through his office. It had not been a great day.

"How many people know?"

Q let out a slightly terrifying, hysteria-driven laugh. “Oh, only about half my branch and four of the double ohs. But that was this morning, at least two thirds of catering and all of Medical will know by now.”

Bond let out a slight sigh of sympathy, on Q’s behalf; it had been a difficult situation for the young Quartermaster, and Bond couldn’t really blame him for having wanted to keep all of it hidden for the foreseeable future. “I’ve tried to suppress too much gossip…”

Q let out a slightly bitter snort. “Yes, let me know how that turns out.”

"No one cares that much to be honest," Bond tried, as Q reached for something in his drawers. "It’s your life…"

"Oh yes, but it just so happens that I am married to arguably the most powerful man in England," Q replied, finding the small box and opening it. He extracted his wedding ring, slipping it on, facing Bond’s curious expression with frank belligerence. "No point hiding any more.”

Bond had known about Q’s marriage for a long while; he, Alec and their Quartermaster were very close friends, and inevitably, the subject of Q’s matrimony had needed to come up in casual conversation. Honestly, they weren’t entirely against the man; Mycroft was a very good man, very good for Q, and the pair were clearly happy. Unpleasantries had never really crossed their minds.

"He’s twice my age James," Q pointed out, after a few moments of silence. "I mean, I was only just sixteen when we…"

"Q, it’ll be alright, I promise," Bond told him, trying to think of some way to comfort the man. "You aren’t a child, nor were you then, and everyone here knows that you are actually a forty year old in a twenty something year old’s body…"

“ _Not the point_ ,” Q snapped, with naked exasperation.

There was a distinctive knock on the door; Bond could literally  _watch_  the tension drain from Q’s body, a small smile creeping into his expression, just around the edges. “Come in,” he called, relaxing ever further when he saw Mycroft in the door. “Hey.”

Mycroft didn’t hesitate. Bond moved out of the way, to allow the older man to draw Q into an embrace that sang of utter care, utter dedication. They had been together for an exceptionally long time, longer than any couples Bond happened to know, and they suited it. They suited one another.

“Has there been any malice?” Mycroft asked Bond immediately, in a snapping tone that Bond knew was not aimed at him.

He dipped his head slightly. “A little, but nothing concerning,” he returned. “Alec is busy terrifying anybody who tries, sir.”

“Thank you,” Mycroft returned, with a nod. “It’ll be alright, Q.”

Q glanced at his husband, knotted their fingers together. “I know,” he murmured, and Bond slid away before he found himself intruding on something that wasn’t his to witness.


	67. Chapter 67

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey my Loves! Can I have more of 00Q interactions with Eve/006? Can be in anyway, anywhere and anytime (maybe at HQ before sending boys off for some kind of mission?). I love what you did with that double date and you totally convinced me to ship hard Eve/006 ;) thank you for that A LOT! ;P – leeeeex

The four of them sat together in silence, four cups of Starbuck’s best in front of them. Steam coiled up towards the canteen’s ceiling, dampening the drab grey tiles.

No one wanted to say it. They couldn’t.

 “It’s only six months…” Eve tried, looking at her colleagues, at her lover.

“Don’t.” Q interrupted, cutting her off abruptly. “Please Eve, just. Just don’t try to make this ok.”

“It’s a bloody death sentence!” Alec exploded.

Eve shutting her eyes, ready to hear the argument again, the rant: “You can’t know that, you…”

Bond sat in silence, eyes only for his partner, Alec steamrolling onwards with merciless precision. “We will get shot on sight,” he snarled. “They don’t expect us to come back. No one retires here, we just get too old and too slow until finally something comes up and we just aren’t good enough to make our ways home…”

Q felt Bond’s hand under the table, curled around his own, holding him tightly.

“They wouldn’t lose two of their best agents to this, Alec, we will have people waiting, the moment anything happens…”

“Only we aren’t their best anymore,” Alec spat, just beginning, the first edges, of true _fear_  crawling into his tone. “We are the old models.”

“Can we please just enjoy the time we have now?” Eve begged, looking to Q pleadingly. He didn’t reply, only squeezed Bond’s hand a little tighter, Bond’s eyes still terribly heavy on him.

“Pretend that James and I aren’t…” Alec shrugged, unable to argue anymore. He reached forward, taking a sip of his coffee, making an elaborately disgusted face. “Can’t a dying man get a good drink around here? Where is my last meal? I am going to die and I am stuck drinking  _fucking_ Starbucks.”

There was a pause.

“Would you prefer Costa?” Q asked, with lethal simplicity.

Oddly, everybody managed a smile. Universal coffee rows are an excellent leveller, especially in the context of gallows humour.

“No, Quartermaster, I think I would prefer brandy,” Alec told him, drinking more of his coffee and retaining his passively. “And possibly a steak.”

“With peppercorn sauce…”

“And chips,” Q stated. “Plenty of fucking chips.”

“And dessert,” Alec exclaimed, banging his fist down onto the table. “Proper dessert, not this expensive ‘only one scoop’ nonsense. I want cake.”

Bond still hadn’t let go of his hand under the table, Q held tightly, as though if he could hold hard enough, he could hold Bond here forever.

“Chocolate cake,” Alec finished, a little limply.

Coffee finished; Eve rose, hugging Alec and pulling him aside, small words, important ones.

Bond turned to his own young partner, eyes saying so many things that Q had never wanted to hear.

“Just… please come back,” Q managed, voice cracking as Bond leaned forward, kissing him, kissing his cheeks, catching the tears and holding him tightly, nose buried in Q’s hair.

“I always do.”


	68. Chapter 68

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey my Loves! Can I have more of 00Q interactions with Eve/006? Can be in anyway, anywhere and anytime (maybe at HQ before sending boys off for some kind of mission?). I love what you did with that double date and you totally convinced me to ship hard Eve/006 ;) thank you for that A LOT! ;P – leeeeex

Eve and Q decided, just because they could, to do the debriefing together.

“… you’ll be coordinating throughout, and sharing resources; hopefully one or the other of you can manage to get the equipment back…”

“… there is absolutely no earthly way you’ll be able to make us believe sleeping around would be ‘necessary’…”

“… surveillance throughout, Eve has agreed to be a secondary handler in case of emergencies…”

“… try not to shoot each other either, that’s my prerogative…”

Bond and Alec were equal parts terrified and aroused. Both of their partners were formidable when working; after all, Alec had fallen for Eve when watching her stage-manage a mission handling remotely, irritably correct a junior agent’s hand-to-hand combat tactics, complete all of the requisite paperwork in less than fifteen minutes and remain utterly calm and balanced on heels that made Alec’s feet ache in sympathy. She could look effortlessly gorgeous while doing things that most agents would run screaming from.

Now, she stood telling him off pre-emptively with a playful severity that was utterly _her_ , enough to make Alec’s remembrances of every single reason why he loved her re-fire; Bond caught his eye at one stage, and barely restrained a snort of laughter.

Alec could be remarkably soppy.

Bond and Q were at a stage of simple and easy domesticity. Talking to Q in debriefs was very much a professional thing; Bond often would look at the Q at work, his Q, officious and dangerous and brilliant, and couldn’t quite make that Q make sense against his Q.

“Good luck, 006, 007,” Q nodded to both of them, before a small smile broke out. “Be safe, the pair of you.”

“Look after my woman.”

“I will,” Eve returned, before Q could; he flipped her the finger, Alec and Bond both snorted, and Alec swept Eve into a rather dramatic kiss.

Bond and Q had a quieter moment; fingers linking, Q’s lips pressed to Bond’s forehead for a moment. “I mean it,” Q muttered. “Be safe. I’m not calling a med team out for you this time, you understand? Drop off comms, and I’ll kill you myself.”

“I believe you,” Bond snorted back.

Alec made a slight retching noise. Eve hit him. “Pot, kettle,” Q told him primly, and stood to dismiss them. “Enjoy long-haul too, gents. You’re both in economy. Consider it my revenge for the Glocks.”

Bond and Alec groaned elaborately, and reluctantly filed out.


	69. Chapter 69

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frobisher and Sixsmith celebrating Christmas together? :D :D Please, I need this… – anon

“… well yes, Sixsmith, I would have assumed as much…”

It just felt right. Robert – Sixsmith had always called him by his Christian name, despite the man’s resolute insistence on calling Sixsmith his surname – was there, with him, for Christmas. Neither man held much religion, but they cared too deeply for one another to miss an excuse for a party.

Naturally, Sixsmith had planned in advance. He had presents, he was ready to give Robert a superb holiday given that his familial relationships were somewhat strained – hardly unusual, but all the same unpleasant – and thus, he needed to ensure his partner was happy.

His  _partner_.

Robert couldn’t cook. He played Christmas carols on the piano in a way that made Sixsmith fall in love with him all over again, and his expression when he saw the Christmas pudding was something to cherish perpetually.

Christmas Eve found them curled together in bed, Robert’s body curled around his, keeping him safe in a way only he could; improbably, Robert was the safe one. He kept the demons at bay and the smiles in the foreground, and Sixsmith loved him for that and so much more besides.

“Merry Christmas,” he murmured, as bells rang outside and the night shifted into a new phase, a new light.

Robert, his Robert, twisted around to him; his eyes were always electric in moments like this, a fire burning inside them that could light him, could draw Sixsmith in and consume him in a heartbeat. “Yes, I believe it shall be,” he said softly, and pressed a delicate kiss to Sixsmith’s lips.

Sixsmith moved in, his own touch all-consuming, and kissed Robert until he could barely breathe. “Love you.”

“And I you,” Robert said, a smile playing in the corners of his mouth, and fell asleep, still cocooning Sixsmith’s abruptly fragile form.


	70. Chapter 70

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Established! Mycroft/Q – Mycroft Holmes is referred to as the Iceman. I would like to see someone question Q’s decision to marry Mycroft and Q’s response is “The cold never bothered me anyway” (from frozen) Thank you so much for giving me hours of enjoyment guys. – anon

Mycroft was not precisely one for showiness or absurdity; he was simply Mycroft, esteemed and poised and perfect, from the moment Q met him to the occasion upon which his lover presented Q with a ring and asked to marry him.

Q had hesitated for less than a second before saying yes.

Simply put: Mycroft was perfect. Yes, it was a tremendously large age gap and  _yes,_ Mycroft was not always emotionally endowed. He was perfectly controlled and icy to the world at large, something which Q had always loved and loved all the more when he found the softer aspects. Mycroft was not ‘soft underneath’ or anything so trite: he was ice through and through, but that never had to mean cruel.

Mycroft loved in a way that could last out eternity, and that was what Q had always wanted, always needed. Mycroft needed somebody who could understand and love regardless, who could know that fire and passion and danger were not in Mycroft’s nature, who appreciated the lethality of somebody who wouldn’t break.

Nobody understood it in the slightest. Q hadn’t expected them to.

Mostly, it was people deciding that either Mycroft had a soft side – Q snorted – or that Q was a raving masochist.

Thus, Q got very used, very quickly, to dissuading them from that troubling notion: Mycroft was just Mycroft. Like all people, somewhat polarising from time to time.

Sarcasm came quickly.

“You’re married to the  _iceman_?!”

They had seen Frozen at the weekend, because Q had wanted to and Mycroft had stifled a smirk and a slightly unkind comment and conceded defeat. Q had loved it, actually, and so had Myc.

It was almost-but-not-quite accidental:

“The cold never bothered me anyway,” he said, with a sycophantic smile, to an entirely bemused Bond.

With that he sauntered out, humming  _Let it Go_  under his breath, and texting Mycroft with a free hand to giggle slightly at the entire situation.


	71. Chapter 71

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh god another one; I’m so sorry but this kept me up at night :) Do you guys write for BBC Merlin? If so may I have a fic where Q is a reincarnated Merlin and James is Arthur? I will send gingerbread from Sweden as payment! :D xx – zoeteniets

“No matter what century, you still haven’t managed to change in the slightest.”

Bond smiled in a way that was all Q remembered, everything Arthur had been: arrogant and petulant and perfect, looking mildly discomfited as he sat down next to his new Quartermaster.

“And you still have yet to discover sunlight,” Bond returned, with that petulance Q knew so well.

He smirked, watching Bond’s eyes light up with a fire that time could do nothing to quell; incarnations later, years and worlds later, it was still him. Comforting.  _Home_. A certain type of knowledge: no matter how the eras changed, that fire would still burn bright, and Merlin would still know where his king survived.

“I have missed you, my lord,” Q noted aloud, tilting his head a little to look him over better – he preferred the body on this one, it had to be said – and Bond rolled his eyes, leaning back into the bench.

“Aren’t you technically my superior?”

“When haven’t I been?” Q asked, with a smirk.

Bond raised a hand, whacking him lightly around the head; Q cursed slightly, but couldn’t quite deny that it was good to have him back.

“When was this painted?” Bond asked abruptly, looking up at the picture hanging in front of them.

Q shrugged slightly, reaching for his briefcase. “A while ago, why?”

“Before I was born?”

Briefcase on lap, Q flicked open the locks, opening it to reveal the gleam of chrome and shining plastic. “Feeling old, are we?”

“At least I don’t currently look prepubescent,” Bond returned, gaze travelling to the contents of the open briefcase. “What’s that?”

“Your sword and shield,” Q replied, smirking. “Shiny, so I thought you’d like it.”

Bond looked down to the gun and radio, raising an eyebrow. “I miss my armour,”

“But you have Armani now,” Q teased, taking out the weapon and handing it over. “It’s keyed in to work for you and you alone, the transmitter will let me know where you are.”

“And how did you manage that clever bit of sorcery?”

“Science, 007,” Q replied.

Bond may have imagined it, but there was a slight gleam of gold in the man’s eyes, the hint of something. “Of course Quartermaster,” Bond nodded, stowing the gun away. “What beast shall I be fighting today?”

“I’ll send you over the files,” Q told him, standing, voice moving into something a little more troubled. “We are not alone in this new world.”

“I shall miss you at my side; these sound like difficult battles” Bond admitted, standing too, facing the man he knew better than anybody yet hardly recognised.

 “I’ll be there,” Q told him, reaching up to Bond’s ear, cupping his face and allowing a finger to trail across the earpiece. “All the way. Whenever you need me, I won’t let you down.”

 “You never have,” Bond replied, taking Q’s hand in his own, leaning into the touch. “I have missed you too my friend.”

 “Be safe.” Q told him, pulling away and vanishing into the gallery.


	72. Chapter 72

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Could you please do some more works with Raoul Silva or Tiago Rodriguez? Maybe Silva is imprisoned at MI6 post-Skyfall and Bond comes to talk to him and asks about M or Silva’s past? Thank you! – anon

Silva waggled his fingers eloquently. “Good evening, Mr Bond,” he said lightly, through his usual Spanish difficulties. “Or may I still call you James? It would seem a pity to go back rather than forward, no?”

Bond didn’t speak, for a moment, just looking Raoul Silva up and down, trying to understand, trying to make the anger fade back a little. “You were dead,” he said sharply.

“As were you once, I understand?” Silva replied easily, crossing his legs with a nonchalant ease, metal clanking as he did so. “Come now, you are not the only one permitted a nasty little habit. Rats, James, you must remember; we  _survive_.”

The temptation to impress upon Silva that they were absolutely nothing alike was almost overwhelming. “I’m here to ask you, to talk to you, about the events of Skyfall,” Bond told him curtly, no manner of softness even touching the edges. “You killed M, attempted to kill me, were killed, supposedly. What interests me is that you wanted her to kill you, too.”

Silva was very still, very silent. It seemed odd, on him. There was a stiffness that Bond was not accustomed to associating with the man; he had more angles, now, more raw edges one could catch on. “All things should die,” he mused, very softly. “Eventually, all things should. And yet, here we linger, hmm? Watching the little things die, replacing them, failing them, killing them.”

“I have no interest in metaphors,” Bond told him sharply. “You were suicidal, a decent attempt was made on your life:  _why are you not dead_?”

Silva smiled, leaned back, all animated once again. “You are very rude,” he said honestly, tsking slightly. “I was attempting simple conversation. I prefer your Quartermaster, he’s a sweet little one, all his words and righteousness. Like you, James, although I expect you know that. Are you his little bedwarmer yet?”

“Enough.”

Silva raised an eyebrow, and Bond knew he had waltzed quite directly into the verbal trap Silva had been creating. He was too clever. Bond was not born for this. For all of his virtues, Bond would be in element when M finally conceded defeat and allowed him to torture the man into speech.

They needed to know  _why_. Why Silva had crawled back out of the woodwork, what he could possibly want  _this time_ , and everybody was painfully and acutely aware that could not afford another Skyfall.

Q was frightened, although he wouldn’t admit it, and Bond immensely disliked that Q was even appearing in this dialogues. This was about the deceased M, and the old guard, and about redundancy and loss, this was  _not_  about the few who could lead into a newer age and be everything Silva had failed to be.

“No need for distress,” Silva told him, all dancing words and empty expression. “No harm is intended quite yet. No fear, Mr Bond. It is not for the likes of you to understand.”

Bond raised an eyebrow. “I know you wanted to die with her,” he said, dangerously quietly. “I know what that means. I know what it is to want to die, and how it feels to come back. I want to know why.”

Silva just smiled, mirthless. “Yes, James,” he mused. “I’m certain you do.”


	73. Chapter 73

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Can I ask for Q/Mallory. Someone doses Q with sthg & he ends up high. He ends up in the infirmary. Mallory is worried so dies his paper work in Q’s room. Q is all loopy, out of it and touchy feelly when he’s not staring @ his own hand. Mallory’s a little embarrassed when others see but won’t hurt Q’s feeling by doing anything about it. So now everyone knows about their relationship. – kurama247

Q was giggling incessantly, head resting on Mallory’s knee, nuzzling into him slightly with absolutely no concern for workplace etiquette or general manners.

It wouldn’t have been too ridiculous, had Q managed – at any stage – to stop being sexually provocative with the head of MI6. “G-garthhh,” he slurred, hand grappling, whining under his breath for attention which a rather flushed M bestowed with a small glance at Moneypenny that just  _dared her_  to say a goddamn word about it.

She stayed intelligently silent, and just watched patiently as Q practically rolled across the floor, keening occasionally at M who petted him absentmindedly and tried not to turn entirely scarlet in the process.

Naturally, he couldn’t keep it very secret. Q was vocal, or catatonic, and both meant that M’s attentions were rather diverted for the course of the day; he couldn’t help but find his lover extremely amusing, but that was not perhaps precisely what anybody was after.

Bond was the first to take the piss. Mallory sent him to the Himalayas on a very boring low-key mission that would be very cold and very good for Bond’s longterm fitness. Q would have a delightful time making his paperwork a little more tricky than usual, when he returned to his normal self.

He spent most of the meeting with Bond leant on Mallory, examining his own hand with unapologetic interest.

By the time Alec arrived, he was palm reading. It was definitely not the most effective thing anybody had seen; for the most part, he was busy concernedly telling Moneypenny she’d be alone forever and telling Mallory that they would get married in spring and he would probably have to wear a dress.

“Why a dress?” M asked, with vague amusement.

Q smiled at him like he was the most important person in the entire world, ever. “Because you have good legs,” he replied, without any guile, which was the point at which Alec and Eve lost it in unison.

The entirety of MI6 would know about the relationship, by now.

M had absolutely  _no_  compunctions about letting MI6 know about Eve and Alec. It seemed only fair.


	74. Chapter 74

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Instead of The Doctor having a daughter, Jenny, he has a son Ianto who joins Torchwood in hope of running into his father. And when they do meet the Doctors not exactly excited about his son being with Jack. – bornscreaming

Ianto was extremely tired of chasing shadows.

The funny thing was that he had actually wound up with the only other person in the universe who would, or could, know or care about the Doctor in the same way he did. Torchwood were known for their links to the Doctor, but it had never  _occurred_  to Ianto that Jack Harkness was immortal, and also looking for the Doctor.

It also never occurred to Jack that Ianto knew  _far_  too much said Doctor. He had never needed explanation or clarification; he just accepted the concept of ‘The Doctor’ wholesale, and kept the same weather eye as Jack for signs of a blue police box or a man who knew more than he humanly should.

The TARDIS wound up landing in the middle of MI6.

The Doctor walked out; he immediately greeted Jack with a grin and boundless surge of energy, laughing. “… and you made this out of Hartman’s Torchwood?” he was asking, being led over by Jack and introduced to the team.

“…Toshiko Sato, better known as Tosh…”

The Doctor had an odd expression on his face, one Jack knew too well; they both remembered the Year that Wasn’t in far too much detail, and that had been the end of Tosh once. The islands of Japan had burned, and Tosh had watched, and died with her entire history.

“… and Ianto Jones, making an honest man out of me…”

“… we hope,” Ianto added drily, before glancing at the Doctor. “Doctor, I don’t know if you know who I am…”

The Doctor glanced over, looked Ianto up and down.

In an instant, his expression mutated entirely. From open and excitable and childish, in the Doctor’s inimitable fashion, to closed and angry in a way nobody could have possibly anticipated. “ _Ianto_.”

Jack, and the rest of the Torchwood team, all looked utterly and transparently shocked. Ianto, meanwhile, was half-steady but with a tremble in his jaw that Jack didn’t quite recognise in his young lover. “You fucking  _left me_ ,” he hissed.

“You’re not my responsibility.”

“ _Who the fuck else’s am I?_!” he snapped back, while the Doctor’s eye fell on Jack with murderous intent. “No, don’t you  _dare_  look at him like that, he didn’t know, I’ve never told him.”

“Told me what?!” Jack asked, somewhere between amused and horrified.

Ianto and the Doctor stared at one another, the former breathing a little erratically, the latter dangerously still; Ianto made an angry, abortive gesture towards Jack. “Tell him.”

“Ianto is technically – biologically – my child,” the Doctor told them all, with quiet fury.

Gwen gaped. Tosh gasped. Owen swore under his breath.

Jack’s fists clenched.

Ianto and the Doctor stared at one another.

The Doctor let out a breath. “I’d better explain,” he said, with weary irritation, and sat in Owen’s vacated desk dramatically, beginning to speak.


	75. Chapter 75

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> aaah, you made me an alec/eve shipper! so, how about a teenage au in which moneypenny is freakishly tall (like, 6 feet or even more) and even if she puts on a nonchalant face she is really bothered until alec (who maybe is a couple years older?) asks her out because he is obviously fascinated by her? i don’t know, i feel like they would make a lovely and fun couple :) — fridatwin

Alec smiled at her, expression calm and slightly teasing in a way only he could adequately manage.

Eve was always conscious around men. A decent number of them found it hilarious to mock her for her height; standing at six three, she towered over most men who generally found it very intimidating and so took the piss.

As a direct result, Eve hadn’t been with anybody in a fairly long while. There was a decent degree of distrust she now had around men, an unavoidable distaste that ran ripples up her spine and stalled any attempts at a genuine relationship. There are only so many times one can be kicked before the novelty well and truly wears off.

“Would you like dinner?”

Eve’s smile could light worlds. “Dinner. A date?”

“Quite definitely,” Alec returned, with a sideways smirk and an expression of careful care; Eve eyed him up and down, before giving a small, subtle nod.

-

The date dawned, and Eve was dressed up as only she could: killer style, clothing tailored to a form most shops didn’t automatically manage. Eve tended to order in speciality clothing, mostly because it ensured the cut perfectly flattered every part of her body without heels or other trickery.

Ultimately, there was never going to be a way of  _hiding_  her height – so she rolled with it, and made the most of what she had.

Alec looked at her, and grinned, all teeth. She had a good couple of inches on him, which was somewhat gratifying, but he seemed delightfully unfazed; one of Eve’s past attempts with a partner had culminated in Eve being labelled ‘intimidating’ in being tall.

“Shall we?” he offered, arm out for her to take, a consummate gentleman.

Eve smiled, letting herself calm –  _trust_  – and held on.


	76. Chapter 76

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Do you think you could do a fic where Judi’s M meets Mrs Hudson? I thought it would be quite unusual, and I’d love to see how you’d write it! – anon

Mrs Hudson was quite an impressive woman at the best of times, and never more so than when she was working to protect the irresponsible young men who lived upstairs in 221 Baker Street.

Sherlock was in trouble. Mrs Hudson knew, and she also knew where MI6 were based after her husband had been interviewed once, and it seemed only right that she do everything in her power – which meant she turned up essentially in the offices of MI6, and demanded to see somebody in charge.

After security checks that stopped barely short of being actively invasive, she was allowed to speak to M.

“My lodger is quite serious trouble, and needs help.”

M couldn’t quite believe her eyes; an otherwise perfectly average woman had just near-enough broken into MI6 to ask for help concerning a lodger. “Care to explain?” she returned, a little drily.

Mrs Hudson was hardly likely to be intimidated, and instead rather patiently explained: “Sherlock Holmes, the detective, rents out the flat above me, that I own. He is in danger, and I need MI6’s help. MI5 won’t do. This is on an international scale.”

“You had better sit,” M told the woman wearily. “You are…?”

“Mrs Hudson,” the woman told M; she nodded tiredly, and indicated the chair Mrs Hudson had yet to occupy. “Once again – Sherlock Holmes. John Watson too, for that matter. You were all so helpful with my husband once, and I was rather hoping you may be too. I have a curious feeling Sherlock may have been taken by Israeli terrorists.”

“And you have this feeling how…?”

Mrs Hudson let out a light sigh. “Well, the poor dears think I’m rather silly, and don’t know what goes on under my roof,” she tutted. “But Sherlock has been dealing with some rather nasty characters. I have some contact details…”

M watched with quiet disbelief as Mrs Hudson rooted through her handbag, and tugged out some pieces of paper. “There you are.”

“Excellent,” M returned, accepting them; the descriptions, names, seemed rather familiar. “This seems… well. Thank you very much indeed, we will get onto this right away.”

“Do update me, won’t you?”

M smiled very slightly. She  _liked_  Mrs Hudson. “Naturally,” she returned, and got on the phone to Q-branch.


	77. Chapter 77

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh god you guys write The Hour fic too? *___* Can I prompt a Bel/Freddie/Hector fic, with a slightly self destructive Freddie. It can be fluffy with the other two pulling him back from the brink, or angsty with Freddie pulling them into darkness. I just miss these characters so much! Thank you! <3 – anon

Mr Cilenti had done something to Freddie that nobody could quite unravel. Some aspect of him had been lost in translation, something died or something woken, and the thing that looked back at them these days was not the same Freddie Lyon anybody remembered.

Perhaps because they had expected that the beating would change his recklessness, would  _reduce_  the manic way in which he pursued stories at the cost of all things, himself included. Perhaps because Bel had desperately hoped that he would  _finally_  learn some lesson, stop being so damned dangerous and look after himself.

Freddie had never been brave. Not truly brave. He was reckless and dangerous and ridiculous and Bel’s, but he was not brave. Until this moment. Until being the distraction to save a girl he knew deserved better.

The truth outweighed everything, absolutely everything. Freddie had been hurt, had hurt, had made his sacrifices – and now, he expected everybody to do the same.

They could not. Nobody possibly could; Freddie wanted the world, and nobody could meet his standards if they tried, if they didn’t try.

Not even Bel, not any longer.

“You’re not a woman,” Freddie told her quietly, almost angrily. “You’re a girl. You’re still a girl. All your damned flirtations, your silly little attempts at relationships – it’s a farce. Even that absurd dalliance with Hector – irresponsible, childish. I thought…”

“What did you think?” Bel returned, voice dangerously level. “Go on, Freddie. What  _exactly_  did you think?”

Freddie was silent, jaw tight, gaze sharp. “I thought this would be possible,” he murmured, and Bel’s breath caught. “It’s not.”

Bel was stunned into silence, and Freddie simply left. He always left, always  _damn_  well left and couldn’t be there to finish a sentence or argue enough, he just remained stoic and arrogant and aloof and Bel  _hated_  him, hated that she loved him quite so much.

“We need to do something about Freddie.”

Perhaps the oddest thing was that it was Hector asking, Hector making the move into protecting him. Bel could have laughed; after all their antagonism, it was Hector trying to save him from himself.

Freddie was imploding, and Bel was terrified. “Yes, the boy is sliding away at an incredible speed,” Lix supplemented, through a puff of cigarette smoke, handing out whiskey to those present in her chipped mugs. “This would seem the moment for an intervention, yes?”

Bel let out a small sigh, and nodded. “Alright, ladies and gentlemen,” she said, with the almost-control she demonstrated on each airing of The Hour. “Let’s get going.”


	78. Chapter 78

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Absolutely love the writing! <3 Could I ask for a soulmate AU fic (everyone has a soulmate and they know once they meet, etc. perhaps with matching birthmarks or whatever), but instead of just two people who are destined for each other, it turns out there are three people bound to each other. Bond/Q/Eve or Bond/Q/Alec would be brilliant! – anon

Q and Moneypenny were instantly and unashamedly drawn to one another.

Q was faced with the impossible and unmistakeable sensation of his body, his mind, tuning and bending quite entirely to her presence. Honestly, it had come as something of a surprise – Q hadn’t ever really considered that ‘soulmates’ were as real as pop culture liked to promote – but there he had it.

Eve, meanwhile, was struggling with a single, serious difficulty: she had felt this before. The undeniable and impossibly strong link to another human soul, the compulsion to be close and stay close, to love and to take care of and  _be_  taken care of; this was not new, but this was  _wrong_.

James Bond had been her soulmate. She knew that. Bond had known that too, although was still far too damaged after losing the last love of his life to even think about acknowledging Eve’s role.

Souls are malleable things. Life and circumstance and development bend a soul towards others, in and out of touch; Bond’s soulmate had been Vesper Lynd, once upon a time, and Eve didn’t doubt it. After her loss, Bond’s soul had thrown itself out into a self-imposed isolation, had denied the emergence of any other bonds because it simply couldn’t cope. There comes a stage of too much hurt.

Eve, however, had simply known that her soulmate did not want her.

Now, there was Q. Only Eve had never quite expected that her soul could be moved again, and it all came as something of a semi-unpleasant shock. Q didn’t ask anything of her, could and did wait; when she finally let go, he had smiled in a way that was utterly compelling, and his kiss had tasted of something Eve hadn’t known she had been missing.

Then, of course, Bond came back.

He always came back.

Eve couldn’t think, for a very long while. Q was just as frightened; Eve had always been fairly open about what it had done to her, never having Bond. “I could feel him,” she said honestly, Q nodding his understanding. “I know he was mine, like I know you are now, and I just…”

“And now?” Q asked, with only the slightest edge of strain.

‘Now’, as it turned out, would surprise absolutely everybody involved.

“ _The inevitability of time, don’t you think_?”

Bond had had a very strange couple of years. Vesper, losing Vesper, nearly losing his life, nearly losing his job, losing himself, Eve; the latter was the best perk of returning to the UK, finding a woman whom his soul had always strived closer to, and with enough time passed for Bond to be able to acknowledge it.

Now, Bond – a confirmed heterosexual  _already with a soulmate_  – was finding that a young man was causing the precise same effects.

Honestly, Bond was mostly confused.

It had nothing on Q, who had been going steadily with Eve for a while now.

“You’re…”

“So it would seem,” Q completed, a little uncertainly. “But I’m with somebody.”

“Me too,” Bond returned, with utter confusion, causing a sink in Q’s heart that had far more to do with Eve than himself. “And I’ve known her longer, we only just managed to reunite…”

Q’s eyes narrowed, in a way that bordered on comic. “Hang on, are you talking about Eve?” Q asked, waiting for Bond’s returning nod. “Okay. So full disclosure: Eve’s my soulmate, too.”  
“But she’s…”

“Oh, make the jump,” Q told Bond, with a hint of annoyance. “Surely it’s fairly obvious? More than one soulmate. We’re  _both_  Eve’s, and we are both one another’s, if I’m not very much mistaken.”

Bond was silent for a fairly long while. After a minute or two, Q couldn’t help a small smirk.

A smirk which developed into a small giggle.

“What’s funny?!”

Q shrugged, now semi-laughing, his smile  _perfect_. “I think it’s fair to say that everybody in MI6 is pathologically abnormal,” he stated simply, and slid his hand over Bond’s without hesitation or apology. “Come on. We should go talk to Eve.”


	79. Chapter 79

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just came to me and I had to ask before I forgot it. Mycroft and Sherlock are the children of the Doctor and River Song and are part Timelord, how else would he survive a drop off the top of St. Bart’s? John finds out the truth and meets the in-laws. – bornscreaming

“… I’m sorry, run that past me again?”

Sherlock let out the sigh of the harassed, and stared down his partner; John stared straight back, definitely sure he needed clarification on what he had just been told because it made precious little sense and potentially was going to be turning his world upside down in the fairly imminent future.

“Time Lord.”

“Yes, I got that bit.”

“My parentage.”

“Yep, just about with you there too.”

“Time and space travel.”

“That’s the one. That’s where you lost me.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes slightly. “My parents possess a form of machine – technically an organism, if we are being precise – known as a TARDIS. Time and Relative Dimension in Space. Far easier to simply describe as a time and space travel capsule.”

John blinked. Let out a small breath. “Alright,” he said slowly, uncertainly. “Time travel. Space travel. As in…?”

“Planets, John. Galaxies, even. Do  _try_  to keep up, won’t you?”

“ _This is taking some effort to digest_ ,” John snapped back, shaking his head a little. “Alright. Time and space. You.” Abruptly, his face paled: “ _Mycroft_.”

“Well yes, as he is my sibling,” Sherlock told him, in the tone of voice he usually reserved for those he considered pathological idiots. “Your tone of voice is curious.”

“ _Please tell me a man like Mycroft cannot travel through time and space?!”_

Sherlock was quiet for a moment. John tended to distrust Sherlock’s ‘quiet’ moments.

“Technically no,” he said, with an edge that did nothing to placate John’s nervousness. “Although in his defence, father didn’t take the exams either. Well, failed. I would hypothesise that Mycroft would, in fact, pass every test with flying colours. I myself am a maverick, and only mummy lets me drive when I see them.”

John blinked. “Somebody lets you drive a time machine?”

“Quite,” Sherlock agreed, with a slight nod. “I needed to learn… was accidently stranded in the Victorian era at one stage, met a man, things went curiously wrong…”

It was weird. Possibly a little too weird.

“And you want…?”

“To introduce you, yes. It seems about time,” Sherlock said honestly; John’s expression remained studiously shocked. “Come  _on_ , John, surely this is, I don’t know,  _interesting_  at the very least?”

“One word for it,” John muttered.

“What?”

“Nothing,” John amended. Sherlock just stared at him. John shrugged. “Go on then. Might as well.”

The whooshing sent every single one of Sherlock’s papers flying.


	80. Chapter 80

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Would you be willing to write an Avengers fic where Tony is awesome with kids and all the other Avengers are shocked because they thought he would be terrible with kids. Maybe something with him being involved hands on with a charity and/or sick kids. I love stories where Tony does stuff to shock the Avengers whether it’s Tony have awesome skills or being really nice to people. – luciferatehannibal

Nat found it first, because she was always the type to wind up in places she shouldn’t finding things she shouldn’t.

Tony, with a grinning child perched on his hip, features bearing the unmistakeable signs of Down’s syndrome. Tony, sat by the bedside of a child with an IV snaking out of her arm, the child wide-eyed and Tony just grinning. Tony, outside the opening of a hospital for child heart conditions.

Just Tony Stark, really.

“Pepper? Is this…?”

Pepper glanced over Nat’s shoulder. “Yes, that’s Tony’s extracurricular, as we call it,” she said lightly, shuffling through the papers balanced in a large wodge on the nearby desk, trying to ninja one particular file out of the middle without sending the entire lot flying. “He’s always been very involved with children’s hospitals, worldwide… flying out to Brazil at some stage soon on that, I need to make sure the flights are booked…”

“The flights have been dealt with, miss Potts.”

Nat and Pepper duly glanced at the ceiling. “Thank you, JARVIS,” Pepper returned politely. “I’ll see you in a while – I think Bruce is around this evening for dinner, if you and Clint want to stay?”

“Sounds great.”

-

They, of course, accosted him about it. “You like kids?”

“Not to be taken out of context,” Tony returned without missing a beat. “Yeah, they’re cool. Why?”

Nat was grinning, and Clint just looked mildly confused. “You work with kids, though?”

“They dig the suit, what can I say?” Tony returned, his grin electric and splitting his face, no hint of duplicity. “Why the hell not, s’what I say about it – it’s why we do this job, right? Making the world better et cetera.”

Clint and Nat exchanged looked. Pepper seemed on the verge of giggling. “It’s just  _surprising_.”

“Why?!”

“I didn’t see you as the type. Paternal.”

If there was one way in the world to derail Tony Stark, it was the threat of longterm responsibility: “Not paternal. No. Definitely not.”

Pepper cleared her throat slightly.

Tony went an extraordinary shade of white.


	81. Chapter 81

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Freddie’s listed his twin’s number… (etc) Okay sorry I know this was super long I hope you can find all the pieces of my long-ass prompt okay, I just love your writing okay thanks so much BYE BYE LOVE YOU BOTH. :D – anon

Q was exhausted, and Freddie was not especially vocal but instead lying in a battered pile in a hospital bed, all limbs and blood and bruises. “Idiot,” Q muttered at him, as a blonde woman rounded her way into the room.

“Fred…”

Her voice trailed off. Bond and Q looked at her. Bond evidently had no idea what to do. “Miss Rowley, isn’t it?” Q managed tiredly, extending a hand. “Lovely to meet you, I’m Q, Freddie’s brother. This is James Bond, he’s accompanying me given that I haven’t slept in a spectacularly long time, and I wanted to make sure Freddie was alright.”

Bel just gaped, eventually managing: “Call me Bel. Freddie never… he never mentioned you.”

“Of course he didn’t,” Q sighed, glaring down at his unconscious sibling. “Twat. I’m an embarrassment. I took after my cousins more than Freddie… he’s all for the truth, the whole truth and nothing but, and I work for the secret service. He’s happy to squeeze me for information, but acknowledging my existence, no,  _that’s_  too much of a stretch…”

Q was at a level of exhaustion where he had mostly descended into random babbling. Bond cast Bel a knowing look, and guided him to one of two armchairs by Freddie’s bed, Q collapsing into it and passing out almost instantly.

Bel had no idea what to make of any of it. Instead, she just slid into the other one – Bond remained on guard by the door, not looking too pleased with the set up – and also fell asleep.

-

“Blimey, there really are two of them!”  
Hector stood in the doorway, grinning, bearing a welcome amount of coffee. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Q yawned, stretching awkwardly, trying to make his back click into place again. “Madden, isn’t it?”

“You watch the programme?”

“I stalk my brother,” Q corrected, intercepting a coffee once intended for Bel without any apology. It was definitely a coffee kind of morning. “Q, by the way.”

Hector raised an eyebrow. “Secret service? Recognise the type,” he said, with a deft head-tilt in Bond’s direction. “Good to meet you, Freddie’s never…”

“… never mentioned me. Yes, I established,” Q completed, still utterly feline as he stretched, and downed his coffee with alarming speed. “Well, I exist, without a shadow of a doubt. Or so I’ve been told. This is James Bond, he’s my bodyguard for the day.”

Hector and Bond would definitely get on. That much was immediately evident. They shook hands with the familiarity of those who knew war and the types of men one another were, and could find indisputable even ground.

Everything went on hold, as Freddie – to the utter confusion of Q and Bond, but nobody else – mumbled, half-unconscious:

“ _Moneypenny_.”


	82. Chapter 82

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one with Tony and Q know each other and Tony tries to recruit Q to work for SHIELD is so good! Can you do a sequel? Maybe they are skyping again and Q says to Tony he’ll think about it so that Tony would leave him alone. James hears it and takes it seriously and panics, also little jealous. Because Tony’s rich, smart, and tiny tiny bit younger? Then Q finds the whole thing hilarious. Thank you! You two are lovely. – mcdanno

—-

Bond was behaving weirdly. Very weirdly indeed actually, even by Bond’s standards, and the man was not exactly known for normality.

“Tone, I need to disappear, it’s damn late this side of the pond,” he told Tony easily, Stark’s face falling into a pout. “Don’t look at me like that, I have things to do.”

“You mean  _agents_  to do,” he snorted.

Q ignored him for the sake of his dignity, and signed off.

Bond was outside the door. Q knew he was outside the door, and knew he had been thus for at least the last half-hour. “James, what on earth you doing skulking?”

There was a strange collection of noises, most of which were probably parts of Bond’s joints – the man had been on several extremely nasty missions, then an extended break that he more than needed, and was now a little creaky around the edges – and Bond poked his head around the door, trying to preserve some dignity. “Ensuring you’re alright.”

“I’m on Skype to Tony, not about to explode nukes. What are you  _actually_  worrying about?”

An insecure James Bond was and is a bizarre thing. “You,” he mumbled. Actually mumbled.

Q was just confused. “What?” he managed, after a moment.

“You are considering leaving MI6, yes?”

“What?”

“What?!”

“I don’t understand,” Q told him helplessly, while Bond continued to look like a fish out of water. “I’m not leaving MI6, I love it here, best place I’ve ever worked by a long margin. Why on earth would I leave?”

“You’re unhappy.”

“What?!”

“ _You said it_.”

Q looked skywards, waving his arms about. “I say a  _lot of things_ , but I’ve never said I’d leave MI6, that’s…” he tailed off, finally understanding,  _finally_. “Oh. You heard what I said to Tony, didn’t you?”

Bond nodded sharply.

“You muppet, I was only saying it to get him off my back,” Q snorted. “Honestly James, you didn’t think… you insecure whatsit, I am also with you, and your’e in the UK, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

“I  _had_  noticed,” Bond objected, “hence being upset! Not unreasonable.”

Q held back a smirk, inviting Bond into a hug. “A bit unreasonable,” he teased, ignoring Bond’s muffled objections and holding him tightly.

For a brilliant agent, Bond could be a real idiot.


	83. Chapter 83

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James thought Alec was dead. He was /supposed/ to be dead. And he was supposed to be over him. So how is it, three years after Alec supposedly died, he walks into his flat to find his lover casually draped over the couch? – anon

The bastard wasn’t even pretending to take it seriously.

“Hello,” he said lightly, waving noncommittally at Bond. “Nice to see you.”

Bond only barely restrained himself from punching the man outright. “Alec,” he managed, “what the _fuck_  are you doing here?”

He glanced up, and his grin was everything Bond remembered. “Couldn’t resist an entrance,” he said simply, swinging his legs off the sofa and standing in an easy motion. “Sorry, James. How’ve you been?”

It wasn’t too surprising: Bond punched him.

Alec attempted to pick himself off the ground, while Bond watched, dangerously still. “I’m sorry?”

“Not fucking good enough,” he growled back, feeling himself shaking, anger bubbling under his skin. “You were  _dead_.”

“Hypocrite,” Alec parried instantly.

A sharp hiss. “This is different. Three years. We were together, Alec, and you fucking left.”

Alec rubbed his jaw irately, feeling the tenderness where it was swelling, would bruise. “Don’t you want to know why?”

Honestly, in that moment Bond didn’t give a fuck. He didn’t care in the slightest for the reasons, for anything at all. Bond simply wanted to hurt Alec, make him feel the slightest fraction of what he had felt for the past three years, ever since losing Alec.

“I mourned,” he said softly, devastatingly. “I mourned for you. You couldn’t have given me a word, _anything_ , to let me know you were safe? Alive?”

Alec gave a small, at least apologetic, shrug. “I didn’t have the option,” he said honestly. “James, it’s not been bloody easy for me, I wasn’t on holiday. I had-”

“Well it’s not like you’re unable to talk,” Bond snapped. “I can’t do this right now, Alec, I just can’t. Later, maybe, but not now.”

“James…”

_“Not now_ ,” Bond repeated, and slammed out of the door, leaving Alec behind in his wake.


	84. Chapter 84

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Could I request a H/C where James has a breakdown and Mallory finds him in his office. – anon

Mallory pushed the door open, feeling tired through to the marrow, desperately needing a coffee and a hell of a lot of sleep.

Except that was not going to happen, judging by the presence of a foetal double-oh agent who seemed to be in the full throes of a panic attack.

Instantly, Mallory was by his side. “Bond? Bond, look at me, good man, keep looking at me. Slow breaths, that’s good, you’re doing well. No, keep looking at me, can you feel my hand? Hold onto my hand, keep breathing. You’re alright, I assure you.”

Slowly, very slowly, Bond’s breathing began to even out.

Mallory could make a fairly good guess at what had caused this apparent development. Bond had been on a particularly horrific mission, distressingly shortly after the Skyfall incident, and a good number of innocents had died. Unavoidable casualties, but then, they always seemed to be and it never stopped the guilt. Mallory still had nightmares of his own.

“M?”

“Yes,” Mallory assured him. “You’re in my office.”  
“Yes,” Bond returned; a good sign, at least, that he knew where he’d wound up. “My… my apologies, for this.”

Mallory restrained the urge to tut, to roll his eyes at Bond’s absurdity. “It’s all fine, we’ve all been there,” he said, voice heavy with understanding and the wish that it didn’t have to be so. “Bond, I would like to suggest you take some leave.”

“Did you?”

The belligerence was probably badly pitched simply because of Bond’s still-tremulous state, so Mallory ignored it. “I didn’t have a choice, and it was the only thing that kept me alive,” he said instead, very frankly. “You can take time out, or I make you take it out. You’re not going to be any damn use if you’re past the point of understanding how the other half lives. You have seen too much, yes, but that is not something we can afford to indulge in. We stay in this business to make sure we never forget.”

Bond was silent, breathing still erratic; Mallory stood, reaching for a water bottle that lived on his desk, handing it to Bond. “You’ll need to eat something in a moment,” he stated contemplatively. “I think you and I should go out for a while. I was packing up regardless…”

“I don’t want to be on my own.”

Finally, the real issue. Not fear or anger or anything in between, but the simple fact of desperately not wanting to eb alone. Active work, in any capacity like Bond and Mallory knew; it made it impossible to be alone, made in desperately necessary to keep people around who understood how it felt to be broken into a million pieces.

“come on,” Mallory repeated. “A drink, and food.”

“Drink,” Bond growled. “Definitely drink.”

Mallory smiled very slightly. “Quite. Up you get.”

Mallory spared a moment to inform Moneypenny that he would be away for the rest of the day, and not in contact unless there was a true emergency. Moneypenny didn’t ask, which was one of the many reasons Mallory kept her quite so close.

“Good evening, M.”

Mallory let out a breath, and helped Bond out before anybody started to need him, before their world swallowed him again.


	85. Chapter 85

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it’s me. again. with a prompt. AGAIN. i really should learn to write ff decently, you are probably getting bored of all my requests… i’m sorry. anyway, Mallory has a daughter, a field agent exceptional with the sniper rifle gone rogue years before skyfall and turned to a vigilante (always pro England). inside MI6 only Tanner and Eve know, until one day Bond gets his arse saved in a deep cover mission gone wrong… :) – fridatwin

Bond wasn’t sure whether to snog or to shoot her.

“Who the hell are you?” he asked instead, glancing her over. “I was not informed about anybody else on this mission…”

The girl shrugged. “I’m an independent,” she stated calmly. “You, Mr Bond, were about to be dispatched – you are perhaps the only person equipped for this mission, and after quite so long infiltrating this organisation, it seems a pity to ruin things now. I believe you should able to reinstate your cover and move on without further problems.”

Bond blinked, tapped his earpiece. “Q, I have a renegade female.”

_“Yes, I can see that,_ ” Q replied curtly.  _“Working on it.”_

The girl – woman, really – smiled. “Is he there? Gareth Mallory?”

Bond raised an eyebrow. “What connection do you have to Gareth Mallory.”

“He’s my father,” she said unapologetically.

“What?”

“ _What?_ ” Q echoed, in his ear.

Her smile increased to an all-out grin. “My name’s Anna, I’m his daughter – I went rogue a long while ago from MI6 itself, but I do keep myself up to date with MI workings.”

“That was a hell of a shot you managed.”

Anna nodded in agreement. “I’m a very good sniper.”

_“She’s not lying, I’ve found her files,”_  Q supplemented, with tangible disbelief. “ _Shit, she’s done a lot actually… well done, Bond, you’ve attracted the attention of one of the most dangerous women I’ve seen in a while. Don’t sleep with her_.”

“I won’t!” Bond replied, with mild indignation.

Anna smiled slightly. “I’m assuming that was the statutory do-not-sleep-with-me warning from your superior?” she suggested. “It’s alright, 001 is far more my type.”

Bond smiled very slightly; 001 was a truly gorgeous example of a female double-oh agent, and had never – nor would ever – show the slightest interest in men. She was in a longterm relationship with R, if Bond recalled correctly.

“Does M know you’re here, then?”

Anna dutifully looked a little apologetic. “About that – no, in short. I thought about telling him, but he would have got annoyed at me interfering, so I’d prefer keeping that quiet.”

_“Yeah, you wish, blondie._ ”

“Nice to meet you, James Bond.”

“And you, Anna Mallory,” Bond replied easily, nodding his head out of simple respect, before the girl vanished into the ether without a look back.


	86. Chapter 86

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I’ve just seen a buzzfeed list of cross-fandom couples that should have been. Check it out, great ideas! But I just love the idea of Neville Longbottom+Molly Hooper. They are actually perfect for one another! Please write it! – anon

Neville met her after an unfortunate incident with a Venomous Tentacular, where he had very nearly lost his finger and needed to get up to the Hospital Wing before he lost a fairly large amount of blood.

Madam Pomfrey had retired after the Battle of Hogwarts; she had been getting on in years anyway, and the sheer loss of life, the stress of the school under Snape’s Headmastership, was enough for her to decide it was about time she said goodbye to Hogwarts and have a pleasant retirement.

The new Hospital Wing matron was named Molly Hooper. Neville hadn’t met her before; she had been occupied during the Feast, impressively enough, but seemed wholly at home in the Hospital Wing.

She was beautiful.

The pair hit it off right away; Molly was quiet and uncertain, and Neville understood that after a childhood spent being horribly awkward and uncertain with everything, and he could see through the nervousness to a spine of steel and conviction Neville respected and admired in equal measure.

“A drink?” Neville suggested, and watched Molly’s face light up.

They headed down to the Three Broomsticks. Neville teased her over a Butterbeer and a hot chocolate spiked with Firewhiskey, and they wound up back in the castle a little tipsy, which was the point Neville kissed her.

Molly had looked utterly, transparently shocked.

Neville thought he’d overstepped the mark, misread everything, had just made a colossal mistake that he would regret for the rest of his life, which was the point that Molly flung her arms around him and kissed him back.

Blood rushed to Neville’s ears at the sheer shock, Molly grinned madly as she pulled back, looking as terrified suddenly as Neville had felt a half-second before. “I, I didn’t mean to, erm, I just…”

Neville quieted her with another, softer kiss. “Dinner,” he said decisively. “Come to my rooms? I’ll have dinner done. Might have to ask the House Elves for help…”

“I can cook,” Molly blurted, before blushing fiercely again.

Neville grinned. “Alright then – I’ll get ingredients, we can cook,” he agreed; as she started to bluster a bit more, he lifted her hand to his lips, and kissed the knuckles gently. “I’ve had a wonderful afternoon.”

“Me too,” she nodded, so visibly happy it made Neville’s heart sing a little. “See you soon. Send me a note, yeah?”

“Yes,” Neville nodded, and bid her a farewell, already counting moments before he could see her again.


	87. Chapter 87

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> so a SHIELD spy and an MI6 agent walk into a bar… – isthisrubble

The woman at the bar was impossibly gorgeous, and Bond was drunk enough – and depressed enough – to think it would be a very good idea to flirt with said woman.

“You’re in a relationship.”

Bond really, truly did not want to get into a situation where he had to threaten or beat up a perfectly charming young woman. “Your name?”

“Natasha Romanov,” she replied calmly.

Instantly, Bond straightened, eyes narrowing. “Of course you are,” he replied, after a moment, matching her face with the various images that existed of the infamous Black Widow. “Apologies. My name’s Bond.”

“James Bond,” Natasha completed, with a smirk. “You  _have_  to find a new line. Double-oh seven, of the MI6 department. I’ve heard a good deal about you, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

Natasha seemed very genuine, friendly, and mercifully not about to destroy him for flirting. “And you, Miss Romanov,” Bond replied easily, extending a hand. “What brings you to these parts?”

“Double vodka and coke,” Natasha said briefly to the barman.

“On my tab,” Bond said as an addendum, noting Natasha’s expression. She truly  _was_  gorgeous. “That isn’t flirting. As you’ve pointed out, I’m in a relationship. How in the hell do you  _know_  that, as a point of interest?”

Natasha smiled charmingly. “The espionage world is not a very large one.”

“How is Clint, these days? Haven’t seen him since that Parisian incident…”

Natasha’s eyes turned only the slightest bit icy. “I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about,” she returned, with a note of warning.

Bond nodded in acquiescence, and didn’t return to the topic. “How has SHIELD been? You’ve had a couple of high-profile events, I loved the footage of New York,” Bond teased; he and Q had spent an extremely enjoyable afternoon watching the Avengers battling aliens, and thanked every single god they knew of – Thor included – that these things tended to avoid the UK.

Alright, except for the Greenwich nightmare, but that had been outside MI6’s remit.

Natasha knocked back her drink with frightening ease, Bond raising an amused eyebrow. “How long you in the UK, and should I keep Q underground for the foreseeable future?” he asked.

The SHIELD agent snorted, ordering another drink. “It shouldn’t be for too long, so long as my mark behaves himself,” she shrugged. “If I can get the hit…”

“… who on?” Bond asked, with a little more urgency. If SHIELD were ordering a hit on UK soil, truly, Bond – or at least somebody in MI5 – ought to have known about it.

Natasha waved him off: “It’s alright, it was cleared with M,” she explained, as her next drink arrived. “No more talking shop, I’m bored. Tell me more about your Quartermaster, then…”

-

Bond woke up the next morning naked from the waist down in the middle of his kitchen, with Natasha asleep and wrapped in a sheet on his sofa, both with no idea of how they’d got there or what in the hell had happened.

“Good morning,” Q said brightly, pouring coffee. “Good night?”

“Good night,” Bond mumbled back, and decided to nurse his hangover from now until the end of time.


	88. Chapter 88

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi, would you be able to write a Natasha Romanov/Clint Barton fill based on the song Run by Daughter? Thanks so much and thanks for all the awesome you put into this world. :-) – anon

They had to keep going.

“Where the hell have you been?” he asked Nat, as she finally appeared, looking tired and alive in spite of herself.

Nat raised an eyebrow, and grinned wildly. “Building’s going up in ten, shall we go?” she asked conversationally, took his hand, and they started to sprint.

They were both going to die before too long. Spies had terrible shelf lives at the best of times, and both Nat and Clint were hardly poster-children for longevity.

Behind them, the building exploded as predicted, the fire glancing off Nat’s hair and lighting her eyes, and that was the moment she kissed him.

She always loved him most when the sky was black with smoke.

Clint loved the way she looked when fires were burning in her, around her.

“Run,” she repeated, as sirens blared.

Eventually, there would be nowhere left for them to run. Eventually, there would be nothing left, nowhere and nothing, and everything from their first meeting – “You’re here to kill me”.  _Yep_. “Are you going to?”  _Nope_  – to cognitive recalibration, via Budapest:

“You love me.”

_Yep_.

Silence.

“I love you, too.”

_I know, Nat, you’re not subtle_

And now, they ran, catching glances and grinning, looping in and through vehicles and scaling up walls; Hawkeye would lift Black Widow up and over, while her body contorted in truly inhuman manners to get her through the slightest of gaps, disappearing and knowing Clint trusted her to stay until she retrieved him.

On one memorable occasion, Clint had stayed in place for a full twenty minutes in a firefight before Nat had driven a truck through the side of a building and yelled at him to get in before she drove off without him.

Clint had jumped while the truck was still moving, almost skidding off the far side and avoiding a bullet to the shoulder in the process.

“Take your time,” he griped at her, shouldering his arrows off and glowering at her slightly.

Nat didn’t look at him, and the fire was back. “Don’t I always?” she teased, and floored the accelerator.

_Run_.


	89. Chapter 89

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not sure if this your usual sort of thing but would you be able to write something with Stony where everyone is in a musical and Tony is the only one who is aware of it. (A bit like Robert in Enchanted. :D ) Thanks. – anon

Everybody was singing.

Tony was having a very, very weird day.

“ _I’ve been dreaming of a true love’s…_ ”

Tony blinked. Steve had officially lost his mind. Without a single shadow of a doubt, had entirely lost his mind. “Captain Sparkles, care to tell me why you’re singing?”

_“… my true loves speaks to me in perfect harmony_ …”

“I really don’t.”

Steve was smiling beatifically, body pressed closer to Tony’s, and the man was still bloody  _singing_.

“Nat, thank  _god_ …” Tony managed, as she appeared in the doorway; Tony was just a little bit too tired, possibly hungover, and possibly high to deal with Steve who was  _definitely_  high or tired or  _something_.

Tony’s horror was incalculable when Nat’s expression took on the same beatific joy. “ _The sky is blue and the birds…_ ”

“JARVIS TELL ME WHAT IS GOING ON.”

“ _… sir, the world is bright and clean, and perhaps does seem…_ ”

Rhyming. JARVIS was attempting to rhyme. Ish. If he squinted. “JARVIS, I need an explanation for this.”

“ _Today the air has changed to song, and you good sir should sing along_ …”

At least Steve wasn’t rhyming.

But, but he was dancing. He and Nat were dancing. Good sweet lord a bulked-up supersoldier and one of the most lethal spies in the world were dancing around Tony’s kitchen; Nat answered her phone with a trilling  _tralalalaaa_  and Tony felt his vision slide with sheer shock. “Nat, who’s…”

“…  _My love is speaking to me, oh perfect man of archery_ …”

Well, that answered that question. “Natasha Romanov, you are an assassin. Stop singing.”

“…  _I do not understand why you say we are singing_ …”

Tony let out a wild, course cry of hysteria,  _MAKE IT STOP OH MY GOD_ , and ran into his bedroom to go the hell back to sleep and wake up in a world where his lover and friends were not dancing and singing and neither was JARVIS, and this was possibly the most trippy morning of his entire life.

-

In the kitchen, Steve and Nat stopped singing.

Hi-fived.

Collapsed laughing.


	90. Chapter 90

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint and Natasha have to look after an asset’s 5 year old kid. – anon

Neither of them had the faintest idea what to do with the kid.

Matilda was five, and very endearing, and clearly thought Nat was god’s gift to everybody and everything, and Clint was vaguely frightened of her and didn’t know what on earth to do with her.

“How long?” Nat asked, eyes wide, collapsed on the sofa after a very, very long day.

Clint shrugged sideways, pathetically grateful that Nat had dealt with putting Matilda to bed; the concept of trying to undress, redress and general placate said small child terrified him beyond measure.

He could do feeding, though, which Nat was far less good at.

Between them, they actually had a fairly workable system.

Although it had to be said, it was doubtlessly the most frightening thing either of them had ever done, and both had decided they would never ever have children of their own. Not something they had been seriously contemplating anyway, but it was good to know that it was off the cards.

Matilda had a nightmare.

Not too surprising – she had seen at least two people die before Nat and Clint got her out of the building – but all the same, they had no idea quite what to do with a weeping child.

So, they played to their strengths.

Nat rocked Matilda in her arms, lulling her into sleep, while Clint warmed up a bottle of milk in the microwave. “Nat, do we have anything chocolate?”

“In my handbag,” she called back, while bouncing Matilda on her knees, smiling coaxingly at her. “Do you like chocolate, Matty?”

Matilda nodded, tremulous, still damp in a very large number of places. Mostly her face.

“That’s snot,” Nat noted, nodding at her nose; she lifted Matilda up, handing her to Clint. “Look, Clint got you chocolate. And warm milk”.

Abruptly, the little girl’s face broke into an unbelievable, bright smile.

Nat leaned in, dabbed away snot, while Clint smiled and fed her chocolate, Matilda starting to tell them about her nightmare  _scary things coming to get me_  which Clint tutted at, while Nat stroked through her hair, and eventually she all but conked out straight onto Clint’s shoulder.

Clint handed the chocolate wrapper and mug to Nat, scooping Matilda into a careful hold and popping her back into her bedroom, the girl smiling in her sleep as she was laid to bed.

When Clint returned, Nat was curled on the sofa, head on her knees. “Alright?” Clint asked gently, sensing something he wasn’t supposed to be party to.

Nat didn’t look up. Shrugged, slightly. “Sometimes I wonder what if,” she said simply, and stayed quiet, letting Clint hold onto her, his body still holding the indented warmth of the child asleep next door.


	91. Chapter 91

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My uncle, Tony, just received the news that there’s a kidney waiting for him and I’m so fucking happy I just don’t know what to say and so, because I’m in such a great place right now, I think others should be too so could I request some super duper smoopy fluff for any pairing of your choice? Everyone should feel as great as I do right now!! Thank you!! – anon

“You stop that right now Bond!” Q demanded, as Bond attacked him in a ticklish assault. “Please, oh god I  _hate_  you, you evil…!”

Bond snorted, absolutely  _merciless_  in his assault on Q’s ribs. “No, you don’t.”

“Try me!”

Q let out a high-pitched shriek, and – in the shock of the sheer pitch of the sound – Bond hesitated.

In a second, Q had him pinned. “Ha,” he said with grim satisfaction, as Bond blinked in shock.

-

Sherlock Holmes rarely looked peaceful. Seeing him calm, so quiet and so wonderfully safe was one of the joys in Mycroft’s life.

“You’re watching me.”

It was fairly difficult to deny, and so Mycroft didn’t try. “Yes, I am indeed,” he replied drily. “I didn’t know it would be a problem. Is it?”

Sherlock opened his eyes.

Morning-Sherlock was possibly one of the most endearing things in the world. It was one of the only times in the world that Sherlock was not desperately and frighteningly acerbic, devoid of cruelty or anger.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, his smile very slight. “No,” he replied softly, and snuggled – yes,  _snuggled_ – into Mycroft’s arms.

-

“Tiago?” Q called, before he was known by that initial. “Tiago, we are going to miss the damn ferry! Your hair looks fine!”

The last comment earned him a light whack around the head from his boyfriend. It was an impossible relationship, an age gap of over fifteen years, with the younger barely hitting seventeen.

It worked, however, and critics be damned; Tiago cared about him, and what was more they had an absurd amount in common. Q and Tiago talked shop about computing – Tiago was a far better hacker, Q could programme like somebody twice his age – and both had a healthy appreciation of both personal grooming, and interior design.

Q loved him, ultimately.

It was more than enough.


	92. Chapter 92

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh, dear. First off, I love the both of you. Also, would you mind doing something Silva? That’s extremely vague, I know, but I thought it’d be nice to be surprised. So, I’m giving you complete creative license! As long as there’s my darling Silva in it. Thanks so much! :) – enjolrasbottoms

Death was an erratic companion. Never there when sought, but always lurking slightly out of reach. Living truly was simply the slow process of dying; an internal rot that spread through each cell, a cancer that could never be escaped. He could feel it, could feel the crumbling of every element of his being – but it was never quite enough to tip the balance. Life clung to him. And he would cling to the living.

Women were beautiful, men were a delight. Young, strong and throbbing with <i> life </i>. He wandered among them now, consuming them, revealing in their wholeness. But even within them he could sense it; and once their bodies lay cold and lifeless it was almost a more honest state of existence.

Bond had been different. Life poured out of him, almost as though he didn’t want it to be there, it was obvious in every scar and marking that he was so very alive. So whole in his broken body. It was like a thirst, more than simple desire, it was recognising a fellow. Another who knew what a curse living could be.

He hadn’t wanted him, not as he had wanted others. Sex was pleasant, but companionship was useful; deference was even better. It was tempting to break him. Torture him to the point of failure and save him once again. But there was something even crueller in allowing him to live.

The little boy and his gadgets; so tangled in his wiring and own fallible brilliance that he was unable to see what was before him. Now he would have been a fun little fuck. Fun to watch the light fade in his eyes as he realised how small he was. How insubstantial.

Mummy. Mummy and her games and her bitter bite. She would have to die of course. Though really that was a matter of theatre – how best to do it. Something personal; an ill-timed bomb would have been such a waste. A bullet through the skull. A knife.

Maybe then life would trickle out, seeping out through the wound and spilling away.

Maybe then he could rest.


	93. Chapter 93

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for filling my last prompt. I loved it! While re-watching Thor:TDW a prompt just came to me. After the aftermath of Malekith’s attack in Greenwich, Darcy is walking when she gets a text message asking why the CCTV had her in the middle of the attack when a black jaguar appears. Sighing, she now has to deal with cousin Mycroft. Reunion in Baker Street with her 3 cousins (Q sent the CCTV footage) and mentions of none of them being there when she visited aunt Violet and uncle Siger. – party-in-the-blue-box

_Would you like explain what you have been doing in Central London recently?_

Darcy let out a dramatic sigh, and rolled her eyes; Mycroft was always melodramatic, and this was just another showing-off move on his part to make Darcy feel intimidated; mercifully, she knew him well enough for it to be nothing more than mildly annoying.

The Jag opened, and Darcy slid in. “Heya, how’ve you been?” she asked Anthea brightly; she glanced up, raised a bored eyebrow, and returned her attention to her phone, as per always. “Alright then. I forget that you don’t talk…”

The rest of the journey passed in relative quiet, barring Darcy’s intermittent babbling, and she smirked as they pulled into Baker Street. “You know, Sherlock could, you know, just like  _call_ ,” she pointed out, as Anthea passively ignored her. “They  _all_  could, it’s really weird that they kidnap me whenever they want to talk…”

Anthea just disgorged Darcy onto the street, and the girl headed to the door of 221B, knocking in her usual  _rat a tat tat_  pattern and waiting for the door to open.

The person greeting her was not who she expected.

“ _Q_ ,” she said delightedly, and near enough bowled the somewhat surprised man over in a hug; Q grinned, and near enough lifted her a foot off the ground with the enthusiasm of his own return embrace. “What are you  _doing_  here?”

Q shrugged. “Myc wanted a team meeting, go figure. Up you come, tea’s getting cold.”

Darcy made a face as she trudged up the stairs; nobody seemed to remember that she was  _not_  a born-and-bred-Brit, and so tea was not a good thing, tea was the antichrist and she needed coffee like she needed oxygen.

The flat smelt of tea.

It was somewhat surprising to be handed a coffee by Q, who winked, and took the playful batting from Darcy without a murmur. “Good afternoon, Darcy,” Mycroft greeted, in his crisp voice. “I hope we find you well?”

Darcy blinked; Mycroft never stopped being weird. “Exceedingly,” she returned, in a languid and mocking English accent, causing a melodramatic eye roll from Mycroft. “You guys are all in trouble, your aunt and uncle are both pissed you didn’t come see them.”

Q had the decency to look mildly repentant. Neither Mycroft, nor Sherlock – who had emerged from the kitchen up the elbows in something purple and noxious – seemed to think themselves wrong.

“You were in London when the aliens invaded.”

“That’s a story I’ll be telling my grandkids,” Darcy smirked. “Yeah. You were too, I guess?”

Sherlock and Mycroft exchanged looks. Q just nodded, looking a little bit knackered. “It’s been a shit few days,” he told Darcy simply. “So yes, we were. As to auntie, I sent her a message – I should be seeing her at some stage, but you  _know_  I hate flying, I keep hoping…”

“ _And_  Siger and Violet haven’t seen you guys in  _weeks_ ,” Darcy continued; she had visited her aunt and uncle while still UK-based, and it had been lovely. Auntie Violet was a strange thing, but Uncle Siger was one of Darcy’s favourite people alive,  _and_  he had made brownies. “You need to go see them.”

Again, all three tried for repentance with various degree of success.

“We’ll do our best,” Mycroft returned diplomatically; Darcy just rolled her eyes, and chucked herself into John’s usual armchair.

“Tell me everything,” she ordered with a grin, and grabbed her coffee with a satisfied smirk.


	94. Chapter 94

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> crossover for you, pre skyfall and pre avengers: what actually happened in Budapest was Clint and Natasha accidentally starting a mob war by saving the life of a british agent named James Bond… – isthisrubble

Motorbikes normally held a warm place in Bond’s heart.

However, it currently felt as though one was burning a red-hot hole through his chest. He had been throw over one, body bound in tight ropes, and a large gag filling his mouth.

The bike’s rider also happened to be insane. And Russian. And insane.

Also possibly the most gorgeous woman Bond hadn’t slept with.

“You are a moron,” the woman snapped at him. “I now have to explain to my boss that my partner and I have started open warfare over you. You’d better be worth it.”

Bond couldn’t answer, but tried to make himself seem vaguely suave.

A fairly difficult feat, with a gag in his mouth.

They screeched to a stop. The woman – and good lord, she was gorgeous – slid off the motorbike, and ungagged Bond. “Your name?” she asked curtly.

“Bond. James Bond,” Bond replied, now finally able to put charm to effect.

The woman raised an eyebrow. “Just not impressed. I’m Black Widow. You may call me Natasha.”

Now, Bond was definitely interested. Black Widow was legendary; a once-renegade who was now a part of SHIELD, one of the most extraordinary martial artists in the world, lethally beautiful and precisely as her name would suggest: enticing, and then murderous.

“Delighted,” Bond smirked, as a man dropped from the ceiling. “And you must be Hawkeye.”

Hawkeye just stared back at him, eyebrow raised, evidently as unimpressed as Natasha was. “You?”

“James Bond,” he replied easily, and extended a hand; Hawkeye ignored it, glancing him up and down.

“I’ve heard of you.”

Bond nodded. “Good to know.”

Natasha twisted to her partner. “We have a problem with the mobs. It’s all kicked off, we’re going to have to deal with it ourselves or Coulson will have our heads.”

Clint rolled his eyes. “Fine. Brilliant. You coming?”

The last was addressed to a rather surprised Bond. “Sounds good,” he replied, feeling for his Walther; Natasha passed it over, and Bond tried not to mourn the fact she was absolutely gorgeous and he would never have a snowball’s chance in hell of sleeping with her.

Ah well.

“You can drive?”

Bond smirked. Oh yes. He could definitely drive.

Natasha smiled sideways, clearly reassessing with the minutes that passed. “Off we go then, yes?” he smirked. “Excellent.”


	95. Chapter 95

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Could I have a modern AU where the Phantom is a judge on a singing show and he’s the strictest judge and never likes anyone? – anon

****

He was a little like Simon Cowell on steroids, and with a mask instead of too-high trousers; not to mention, he only went by ‘The Phantom’, which was part enigmatic and part up-it’s-own-arse.

For the most part, he hated absolutely everybody, without exception. Carlotta – a truly extraordinary soprano, if a horrific diva – was one of the foci of the Phantom’s wrath, as was Piangi, who in the Phantom’s defence was a walking caricature and didn’t have the steadiest voice in the world.

It seemed as though the only person the Phantom actually like was a young girl called Christine, who was a very rough singer but fairly impressive, and – more notably – very attractive.

It was a little bit creepy, quite frankly. He watched her with disturbing intensity.

Eventually, things came to a bit of a head when Carlotta’s throat spray was poisoned, and the only person who seemed to have potentially done it was none other than the Phantom. It was well known that Carlotta was Christine’s only true competitor – by far the most accomplished singer – and the Phantom  _loathed_  her ever more with every passing week.

Christine found him shockingly creepy. Not to mention that she was having an affair with the host of the show, a gorgeous blond known as Raoul who was dashing and confident and perfect for her.

Things continued to slide.

One of the cameramen was found hanged by the own camera lead. The police were called, the police were baffled, the police left again.

Rumours spread that the set was haunted, and it was openly discussed that the ‘haunting’ was essentially just referring to the Phantom, who – word had it – had summoned Christine to his dressing room, and all of it somehow wound up with her unconscious on his couch and rather confused to boot.

Raoul had had quite enough of the shit happening on his own show, and so took action: secret cameras were set up, police were waiting in the wings, and the competition went on as normal.

Ish.

“The show has been rigged,” Raoul announced, on national television, “by none other than our judge the Phantom!”

All hell broke loose. Christine was abducted through a trap door, followed by the Phantom, and nobody knew what happened from there; Raoul returned with rope burns around his neck, Christine looked like she’d probably been molested at some stage, and the Phantom had accidently given himself an electric shock trying to wade through an unexplainable pond in the basement while still wired to his microphone. It was a very weird experience.

-

The show got unbelievably high ratings.


	96. Chapter 96

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Can I have a really feelsy story of Alec trying to deal with James dying? Bonus points if their in love! – anon

There is nothing harder in this world than losing somebody who formed who you are.

Alec had known Bond for as long as he could remember; their first initiation into MI6, which was forever ago now, and now further onto their full experiences throughout becoming double-ohs – Alec had been first, and had crowed over Bond about it ever since – and through grief and pain and anger and everything.

Grief was nothing. Everything Alec had ever lost was nothing compared to this.

“Alec?”

Eve was always Alec’s touchstone, when everything went to hell. Bond had nearly-died or been otherwise engaged for a good number of Alec’s crises over the years, and Eve had filled and surpassed expectations in those moments.

Now, she needed to fill not a mere gap, but a gaping  _chasm_.

“Yeah,” Alec replied, with a very passable imitation of normality. “What can I do you for, Miss Moneypenny?”

Eve smiled slightly, quietly sympathetic without the slight condescension one often found with grief. “Just checking up on you; M’s wondering if you’ll tip yourself off a bridge, of course, so I thought I’d double-check.”

Despite himself, Alec smiled, and it was genuine for the first time in a little while. “No bridge-tipping. Apart from anything else, I believe that was his prerogative. Or, indeed, yours.”

Mercifully, Eve was past the point of being offended at jokes along the lines of her James-Bond-murder. In fact, she rather revelled in having nearly managed it, given how difficult it was to kill him.

In the end, it had taken seven people and a very long time and a fair amount of enjoyment.

Alec, and indeed 001, had taken them out with a grim-minded type of revenge that neither regretted nor ever would. M had sanctioned it. Bits would still be found for the next six months.

“Quite,” she smiled. “Would you like to get some dinner?”

Alec couldn’t deny that it had been a very, very long time since he’d eaten anything. It meant he probably should accept the offer; the only problem was seeing Bond somewhere in the eyes and talk and smile, and it was almost overwhelming. “Okay,” he said, before he could stop himself.

Eve looked immensely relieved, and extended a hand out.

_Just get on with it, you idiot_.

Alec smiled to himself, and took it.


	97. Chapter 97

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eve is a witch, but she renounced magic after the Battle of Hogwarts and has been living as a Muggle ever since. Unfortunately, she and Bond end up in a situation with magic villains of some description and she has to deal with it because bullets are useless against wands. Bonus points if Bond is completely in awe after he gets over the shock of “magic exists wtf” – isthisrubble

Bond was beyond confused.

It had started out as a fairly normal mission. There were some mild unexplained bits of weirdness, but that was near enough standard; most missions had  _something_  weird to deal with.

This particular brand of weird was particularly impressive, though.

Jets of light were flying across a field, and it seemed that Eve was fighting everything with a wooden stick which was issuing its  _own_  jets of light and Bond had been told to stay down, and was frankly happy to do as he was told for one of the very few times of his life.

“ _Avada Kedavra_.”

One of the assailants dropped to the ground, looking – to Bond’s utter confusion – like he may well have died.

“Eve…”

“Shut up,” she said irritably, still duelling madly, red lights now dancing against green and it was _insane_ , this should not have been real.

Everything stopped very abruptly.

“Bond, you can stand up.”

Bond was honestly a little reluctant to do so. “What the  _hell_  just happened,” he asked, very still and very nervous.  “Are they… what did you  _do_?”

Eve smiled, grinned properly. “Well. Magic is real,” she smirked. “Like – proper magic, true magic. This is my wand. I am a witch.”

There was no good answer to that.

Bond was silent.

Bond was silent for a while.

Bond was silent for a very long time indeed.

In an attempt to be helpful, Eve extended her wand for Bond to have a look at. He paled and shook his head frantically. Eve withdrew it again. It seemed that Bond had gone into shock, and Eve cursed that her Calming Drafts were elsewhere.

Also, she would need to explain a  _lot_  to the Ministry, for why she’d told a Muggle about the existence of magic. She’d probably get away with it, given her work in the Muggle world, but it would be a nasty conversation all the same.

“Well,” Bond muttered. “At least you’re good at it.”

Eve blinked. “That’s… that’s not what I expected,” she admitted. “I… any questions?”

Bond shrugged. “My friend is a witch. I’m not dead. I could have been. I’m definitely done asking too many questions. Like I say. Least you’re good at it.”

Eve was still vaguely in shock as the Ministry locusts descended, and she prepared for a sharp conversation to see if she could ensure Bond wasn’t Obliviated.


	98. Chapter 98

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sirius has escaped from Azkaban and is staying with Remus Lupin but twelve years in prison has destroyed Sirius’ mind and Remus is left to pick up the pieces of his once friend.! – anon

Eating was an interesting process.

Remus ended up doing it in small portions; no matter how many times he assured his friend that he could have as much as he liked, there was something inbuilt that made him believe he simply wouldn’t be fed again for a long while. Sirius couldn’t help but eat everything in front of him, to the point of illness.

There was something far more… canine in his eyes, something wild and certainly hungry, that couldn’t be sated.

At points it became too much.

Remus was trying so hard to break Sirius out of the now habits of being canine. He had not been human in a very long time, and was so accustomed to hunting for himself, eating raw meat; there was a level of simple re-humanising that took a long while.

“What’s that?”

Remus had put a plate of bacon and eggs in front of him. “Sirius, what do you  _think_  it is?” he replied wearily, sliding into the chair opposite him. “You’ve not been away from normal people that long, you must recognise a cooked breakfast when you see it?”

Sirius’s expression was black and dark, and the creeping snarl Remus could see was something he knew all too well.

In response, Remus felt the wolf under his skin, and his snarl was guttural.

Apparently, not the greatest idea. Sirius switched to his canine form, and pounced; with Remus wholly unable to  _choose_  lupine form, he simply had to yell: “Sirius,  _stop_ , listen to me…”

Abruptly, Remus was pinned by the full weight of a full-grown man.

Both stared at one another with plain shock. “… fancy getting off me?” Remus asked, with a touch of humour that mercifully caused a genuine smile. Ever after all the years they’d known one another, Remus had never failed but to brighten at Sirius’s smile.

The man rolled off, hitting the ground with an  _oomph_  and staying on his back, watching the ceiling blankly.

Silence lingered for several long minutes.

“It’s hard,” Sirius said quietly, voice still rough, still  _animal_.

Remus didn’t reply for a moment, passing his wand over his arm, where Sirius had torn along it with claws. “It’ll get easier,” he said quietly, and let the silence wash for a little longer.

Eventually: “Let’s eat.”

They would pretend, for a while.

It had to be enough.


	99. Chapter 99

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q and Bill Tanner Fic where they’re at home cuddling by the fire in fluffy socks and pyjamas just being cute, please? – anon

"I’m glad that bitch went," Q commented, mug held in over-long sleeves, taking a small sip and smirking delightedly.

Bill chuckled, wrapping an arm around his young partner. “She was ill.”

"She took his ice cream out of the freezer! I’m glad she’s gone!" Q said vehemently, waving at the TV screen with ferocious passion, the fury of a man who cared about cake. “I want him  _back_  though, I want to see the bloke’s beard…”

“Q, stop,” Bill told him firmly, dropping a small kiss onto the top of his head. “Drink your tea, and you need sleep.”

Q let out a small whine of annoyance. “You’re not my mother,” he mumbled, but obediently snuggled and settled, watching the Great British Bakeoff with a passion second only to his eldest brother.

“I’m making brownies again,” Bill said abruptly, casually.

Q sat up so fast his tea was very distressed. “ _Yes_. You’re not kidding?!”

“Nope.”

Nobody made brownies like Tanner did. He was known for his brownies around MI6, around Q-branch, and around Q particularly; it was fair to say some of their earlier relationship had revolved around Bill’s brownies. And cookies. And general baked goods. To the point where afore-mentioned elder brother had very nearly attempted the terrifying concept of  _flirting_  for the sake of baked goods.

Instead, when Bill had been customarily abducted, he avoided Mycroft’s wrath through brownies and M’s speed dial.

Two years later, still going strong, and Bill still was the best baker in the world. To the extent that he watched the Bakeoff and was more than able to critique their work as it happened, and then make it better.

“I love you,” Q told him, a little dramatically, falling onto Bill’s lap and imperiously demanding cuddles.

Bill obliged. “Love you too,” he murmured, and let his partner return to cursing vaguely at the Bakeoff with extremely endearing vociferously. 


	100. Chapter 100

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Could I please please please have some Stony with Steve being awesome and Tony realising that he’s actually in love with the dork? Please and thank you! (: - anon

"He’s a caricature of himself - he’s what gets drawn if you go to the fair," Tony commented, watching as Steve made a modest acceptance speech. It was some form of service award. Being brave. Being heroic.

Being a complete dork.

"You like him though," Pepper commented, as Tony poured himself another glass.

"No I don’t," Tony replied, not missing a beat.

Pepper smirked, very slightly. “Um, yes, yes you do.”

Tony nearly snorted his drink straight out of his nose. “No idea what you’re talking about. Deluded. Take some time off, it’s getting to you.”

Pepper’s smirk had mutated into a full-out grin. “You really,  _really_  do,” she laughed. “Tony, just ask him.”

“Shan’t.”

Pepper poked him in the ribs. Tony slapped her away, sticking his tongue out as he did so.

“Real mature,” she noted.

Tony rolled his eyes, and straightened – almost imperceptibly – as Steve returned to his chair. “You good, Tony?” he asked, eyebrows furrowing slightly. “Looking a bit pale there.”

Pepper giggled. Steve looked very confused. Tony swallowed, and managed a cocky smile. “All good Cap. Good speech going there,” he grinned. “All noble, only made me vomit in my mouth a little bit.”

Of course, Pepper nearly inhaled her own drink.

“Pep?”

“All good,” she waved, watching Tony with an absolutely terrifying expression, teeth wide in a delighted grin. “Go on boys, enjoy.”

With that, she sauntered off.

Steve watched her, still tangibly bemused. “Is she…” he began, trailing off uncertainly, “… alright?”

Tony shrugged. “She’s taking the piss a bit, s’all good, normal Pepper.”

“Why this time?”

“Apparently, I like you.”

Steve raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you?”

“In a sexual sense.”

Steve’s expression didn’t change. “Don’t you?”

Tony blinked.

Blinked again.

“What?”

Steve looked as mischievous as Pepper had, a few minutes previously. “Thought you did,” he said lightly. “You couldn’t stop watching me through my speech, and I  _know_  that face. Dinner?”

Tony was fairly certain he’d forgotten how to think. “… yes?” he managed.

Steve nodded, and clapped Tony on the back. “Excellent. I’ll organise it, and let you know when.”

The man had long-since gone by the time Tony had even  _started_  to compute what had just happened.


	101. Chapter 101

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bond speaks Scottish Gaelic, and somehow he finds out that Mallory-M does too. Bond proceeds to use it to terrorise M in some way. (no slash please). Thank you for being so wonderful! – anon

It was only truly unbearable during meetings. Bond would cough out a word and Mallory would find himself fighting down the urge to kill the agent. It was always rude and never fair, occasionally suggestive in the way only James Bond seemed able to get away with, insulting from time to time, occasionally outright blackmail.

“Bond, if you continue with this, I will have you disciplined.”

“If you can explain why,” Bond smirked, and sauntered away.

M drummed his fingers against the desk, trying valiantly hard to keep himself sane. “Bastard,” he muttered to himself, and pinched the bridge of his nose carefully.

He stayed like that for a moment, before his phone buzzed with a text message.

_Cuir a-steach am facal a tha thu a’ lorg – 007_

“Bastard,” M repeated, reading back the message:  _This is surprisingly fun_.

Absolute bastard.

“Moneypenny, I need your help.”

-

Bond received an entire mission pack in Gaelic.

M just looked at him, as though butter would not melt. “If you cock up this mission, you will be on training for the next two months,” he said lightly. “Good luck, 007.”

“I’m not strong enough at Gaelic.”

M grinned, all teeth. “Oops.”

Bond had never been especially strong with Gaelic. He was good enough to be nightmarishly annoying, but not fully fluent.

M, on the other hand, truly was. Therefore, Bond didn’t stand a hope in hell of translating the entire thing, mostly because M had used some  _very_  obscure terms throughout. “You’re staying here to read it, and then you’re off.”

“I can’t go away with it?”

In short, M didn’t want him using Google to try and help himself. “Nope. Time sensitive. Remember what’s at stake, too. I’ll put you with  _very_  new ones, who know absolutely nothing, and you’ll have to go from scratch with them all.”

“That’s  _cruel_.”

M was still grinning manically. “Isn’t it just. You started it, Bond, now show me how good you truly are at Gaelic.”

Bond paled, and started working.


	102. Chapter 102

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Could you write some Mollcroft? Mollcroft needs love! – anon

They had bonded over an initial love of tea, and had grown past that when Mycroft met her cats. There were three and they adored him, which was enough to make Mycroft stay a good deal longer than anticipated.

Really, he had only begun talking to her after a case where Sherlock had spent two days locked in a morgue with a decomposing body, and Molly had called Mycroft in the hope that he could coax his sibling out. Apparently, Sherlock had managed another row with John, or something similar.

Either way, they’d got to talking, and now there were cats.

"You know, we had to stop having cats after Sherlock grew past the age of five…" he commented, picking up a tabby that nuzzled him affectionately.

"I can imagine."

The fact that Molly could bake was also a mark in her favour. Very literally. Mycroft would never show his partner the small list he had devised when they began dating of her pros and cons, but it existed all the same, and he kept it tucked in a pocket of his pinstripe suit and would never mention it.

It seemed that Molly was an excellent choice of partner, and one he should continue to cultivate insofar as a relationship. Molly seemed delighted, something Mycroft defined as a success, and it went from there.

Mycroft was vaguely aware that he was becoming rather attached.

Sentiment being a confessedly negative trait, but Molly being an indisputably positive influence on Mycroft’s life, was an annoying dichotomy Mycroft had yet to fully wrap his mind around.

Molly was unerringly gentle, and Mycroft needed somebody like her to stop him regressing into himself despite the temptation, despite the  _ease_.

He never said it. He probably never would.

Molly knew, all the same. Mycroft loved her – or was, at the very least,  _sentimental_  – and it was more than enough. Intelligent and kind and steady and focused. Not demonstrative in the slightest, but protected in a quiet and ferocious manner that suited Molly quite entirely.

“Thank you,” Mycroft told her softly, as the eldest of her cats shooed away a younger to take pride of place on his lap.

Molly smiled, reached forward over the cat to kiss him gently on the lips.

More than enough.


	103. Chapter 103

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just had a sudden brain fart about Mallory and Q. Mallory loves Q who doesn’t seem to notice his courting (raising Q branch’s budget, personally escorting him home, having dinner together). When he finally declares his intentions formally, Q admits that he feels the same but refused to hope in fear of getting rejected. I’d love for this to end with Mallory sweeping his things of the desk.. –anon

M couldn’t help but mourn somewhat; Q was the most useless creature alive, and terrifyingly, breathtakingly oblivious when it came to anybody flirting.

He had tried everything. Absolutely everything. Q still had yet to notice a damn thing.

They were very close, of course. They had to be, with the amount of time M had consciously been spending with him; he spent a good deal of time walking him home, looking after him, manipulating his budget on a whim, forcing him to take days off when he overworked. He had tried everything.

“Q, would you like to come to dinner with me? I intended to speak to you sooner, but I had hoped that my apparently inept attempts at seductions have been perhaps missed – or I am correct in assuming you have no interest…”

“ _No_.”

M stopped mid-sentence, at Q’s rather emphatic assertion. “Erm…”

“No, I mean – I  _am_  interested, you’re wrong to think I don’t, I always have,” Q managed, with slightly less composure than he probably would have liked.

Both of them just stared at one another, apparently as confused as the other at what on earth to do next. “So…”

“Yes,” Q emphasised. “Dinner would be excellent. Absolutely excellent. I like Indian?”

M grinned, actually grinned, which would have been one of the most frightening things Q had ever seen had it not bene for the simple fact of having made the man smile. “Indian it is. Eight?”

Q’s eyes widened behind his frames. “Fuck. I have 008 to monitor, he has a check-in…”

“Tomorrow?” M suggested, unperturbed. “Wait, sorry – I have a meeting myself…”

“Okay, new plan,” Q smirked. “Come have coffee in my office, we can compare schedules. I’m sure Eve would be more than delighted, she’s known for ages that I… well…”

M reached out, the contact startling both of them in intensity. “Why didn’t you say?”

“Thought I’d be turned down,” Q said honestly.

M rolled his eyes, and kissed Q.

Q responded with so much vigour he nearly knocked M’s desk over altogether.


	104. Chapter 104

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Do you also take Mycroft/Irene requests? I’d love to read something about Mycroft being Irene’s client, because he likes to have sex with a real professional! :) And well, he likes it rough! Dom!Irene please? – anon

It was always comforting, Mycroft mused, to know that one was seeing a professional. One would not allow simply anyone to cut hair or plumb a bathroom, and yet so many people would allow a stranger into their trousers without a second thought.

Irene was certainly professional. Money was simple and she would remain confidential. And – Mycroft considered, wincing in delighted agony as she brought down the riding crop on his back – she knew how to handle her equipment.

Mycroft’s own tie was tight around his throat, acting as a makeshift collar. Irene held the end, tugging it slightly on each strike - enough for just a pleasurable amount of asphyxiation.

His erection ached, a tight ring around the base keeping him from coming.

“Well Mr Holmes, that’s twenty,” she murmured, dragging the crop up and under his chin. “You know, the last man I beat with this was your little brother…”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow and received a sharp slap for the insolence. It was so very gratifying to find someone with enough of a spine to do that: make him feel totally powerless, even for a moment. It was surprising. Freeing.

“I should invite the pair of you together - now that would be an evening…”

Irene was, of course, teasing him. Testing him. Seeing if the resolve would break.

Mycroft remained silent. It was a battle, their meetings; a battle with a predetermined outcome. The winner was unimportant, however - it was the rapturous feeling of losing, if only briefly. Surrendering.

Soon Irene had moved behind him and Mycroft felt the firm length of her toy pressing against him.

It was unbearable; he resisted the urge to thrust down, to try and take more of the strap on, as she held him fast.

“Do I need to get out the restraints again? A pity, I had thought we were past that stage…”

Mycroft keened, breathless now as she softly moved into him, too slow, driving him insane.

“Harder,” he begged, voice cracking. The battle lost, and the odd release prickled over his skin. “Please.”

“What was that?” Irene asked, stilling in her movements. “Does somebody want me to fuck them into the carpet like the pathetic little whore that he is?”

Mycroft grit his teeth, pride and modesty fading into aching need.

“Yes, madam,” he managed, as Irene stroked a finger down the length of his back.

“Very well. But you’ll get no release until I say,” Irene told him, as Mycroft collapsed forward, rutting against the floor, letting out a strangled yelp as she found the most sensitive part of him.

She didn’t allow him to come until he reached the point of tears.


	105. Chapter 105

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> you (brilliantly) filled more than one prompt where MI6 and SHIELD collide… now, I believe if that really happened Tanner and Coulson would be kind of best buddies, what with being incredibly powerful and supercool and astoundingly underrated (even if by choice). so imagine a night out between the two, bitching about infant double-ohs and childish first class assassins, too young quartermasters and genius billionaire playboy philanthropists, impossible bosses and… well… “Hulks” :D – fridatwin

“… and so Stark flies through the window, and…”

Coulson had been on a protracted rant for the previous ten minutes. Tanner nodded once in a while, his mind flickering back to his own ridiculous life. “Bond did something similar,” he said, noting that his voice was a touch slurred from alcohol. “Only jumping, not flying.”

“Still suicidal?”

Tanner shrugged. “He’s got a boyfriend.”

Coulson nearly spat out his drink. “He’s what? I thought…”

“We all did,” Tanner returned, while Coulson reclaimed his composure. “S’mad. Our Quartermaster, of all people.”

Coulson’s eyes narrowed. “The skinny computer one? The one who hacked the Pentagon?”

“That one,” Tanner agreed. That had been hell. Q – known then under an alias – had hacked the Pentagon, nearly caused the collapse of UK-US relations, Tanner had calls from most of the US government and then Coulson had shown up, asking about the computer genius that Tony Stark was interested.

Tanner hoped the pair never met. Otherwise, he got the impression the Quartermaster would never come back; he was weak in the face of beautiful gadgets, and nobody did gadgets like Tony Stark.

Coulson shook his head slightly, knocking back the last of his drink. “Oh, and Natasha is still pissed about Bond’s behaviour…”

Mostly, Tanner tried very hard to forget the day James Bond had felt up Black Widow and got a well-deserved punch to the jaw and headlock. It was almost worse than the Pentagon debacle.

“… but hey, I don’t have to deal with green boy,” Tanner smirked. “Our new 001 met him, you know.”

Coulson’s grin was  _terrifying_. “Of course I do, I read the reports.”

“Phil, have you got a mole in MI6 again?” Tanner asked tiredly. “I really don’t want to have this row again.”

“Maybe. You have one in SHIELD.”

“Do  _not_ ,” Tanner lied, with compelling vehemence. Coulson snorted. “We  _don’t_. Well. Mostly.”

“And  _mostly_ , we don’t have one in MI6,” Coulson replied politely. “Cool down, we’re not gonna bring down your government.”

Tanner raised an eyebrow. “I never know with you. More drinks?”

“More drinks,” Coulson agreed, and flagged down the waiter with a dignity that somebody that drunk had no right to show.


	106. Chapter 106

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I’m a rather new followe, but after reading every single prompt-fill since the last 7 months, I rather thought I’d ask for one myself. Darlings, lights of my life, won’t you please write a Bondvengers 00Q, with fem!Q being the sister of Tony Stark? Q and Bond being called in to help the Avengers or some such? Pretty, pretty please? – isauntervaguelydownwards

“So blondie, you must be the great James Bond?”

Q couldn’t help but groan internally; Bond had already acquired a nickname. Blondie. It didn’t bode well given Bond’s vehement loathing of nicknames. “Tony, this is James. James, my nightmare of an older brother, Tony Stark.”

“This explains a lot,” Bond commented drily, extending a hand towards the inimitable Stark. “Good to meet you. How did you end up in the States?”

Tony smirked. “ _She_  left, not me. Think that accent happened by accident? Mimic, kid’s a mimic.”

“I’m not a ‘kid’, Tone,” Q briefly berated, earning a small smirk from Bond and an all-out grin from Tony.

Q debated his options. Running seemed like a very good option. Running, and never letting the two of them speak again because this was going to end very badly at this rate, she did  _not_  like the timbre of that grin or that smirk.

“Drink?”

“Gasping,” Bond replied smoothly, making Tony very slightly raise an eyebrow at the somewhat suggestive tone.

Brilliant. Bond couldn’t get through a handful of words without becoming seductive, and Tony was the greatest flirt the world would ever know. “It’s eleven in the morning,” Q pointed out, with the vague hope of somebody who knew full well it would come to naught.

Tony was already sauntering to the bar. Q rolled his eyes. “Bond…”

“Lighten up,” Bond replied, and  _ohdeargod_  he had a grin of his own. Bond was  _terrifying_  when he grinned. “So Mr Stark…”

“… Tony, come on…”

“… baby photos of our Q?” Bond asked.

Q was going to make his life a living hell. An absolute, unmitigated hell.

“Tony, don’t you  _dare_ …”

“Jarvis,” Tony said absentmindedly to the ceiling. “The albums?”

 _“I would sir, but Director Fury is on the telephone, apparently you are almost four hours late – you may wish to consider attending the meeting with some degree of haste_.”

Q let out a small noise. “The meeting which I took a bloody  _flight_  to get to?” she asked, with a small noise of aggravation. “I assumed you’d actually take me to the goddamn meeting on time, I don’t have transportation, you’re supposed to be slightly  _responsible…_  Jarvis, I need a car, some form of transport if you would?”

 _“By all means, madam_.”

“I like that he affords me an honorific,” Q said smugly, and started walking towards the door, before stopping fairly abruptly. “Erm, Jarvis, could you possibly get me to the car? No idea where I’m going.”

Bond and Tony downed the measures Tony had already poured, with nothing more than a sly glance towards one another. Q pretended not to notice; it seemed simplest. “I’ll take you,” Tony sighed, the sigh of the put-upon – Q wanted to punch him, she really did – and led him to the lift. “Can’t believe you got all  _responsible_ , remember the swimming pool…”

“The swimming pool?” Bond asked, mischievous.

Q was going to kill them both.


	107. Chapter 107

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in an AU where Q is bond and verper’s kid, Bond and vesper have been drifting apart and almost call it quits, when their little 12 yr old Q reminds them why they love each other. – anon

Q seemed rather irritable about the whole affair, actually.

“You both have a lot in common, Daddy doesn’t trust anybody, Mummy wants to keep the family together and you have me, so you’re going to end up staying together anyway, so this is all just silly and unnecessary. You should do things like dates. Dates are good for people.”

Bond sighed slightly. “Are they now?”

“Yes,” he said, with all the conviction of a young child who was getting conversant with dating techniques. “Dinner and things.”

Vesper was trying very, very hard not to smile.  _Things_ , she mouthed at Bond, who let out a small snort.

“See?” Q continued indignantly. “Love each other. Make each other laugh. I’m not sure that’s the most important thing but I read it, so it’s probably true. I like laughing with people, just when they’re laughing it’s at me a lot of the time because I’m a nerd.”

Bond’s expression instantly darkened. Vesper remained as she always did: calm, controlled, and lethal. “You’re not.”

“I am, it’s okay,” Q replied, with a light shrug. “Really. I like it. I like my computers and things. And that’s not important, we’re talking about  _you_.”

There was something ridiculously endearing about the earnestness on his face. His child,  _their_  child, twelve years of raising him and caring for him, the shared impossible brilliance of watching him grow despite MI6 and so much  _risk_. They had lasted so long and been through so much.

Q glanced between them. “Are you going to go have sex now?” he asked, with a slight crinkle of distaste.

“Elegantly put, and also not something to ask anybody, let alone your parents,” Vesper chastised, before turning to Bond and subtly – almost unnoticeably – raised an eyebrow.

Bond smirked.

“I have a program in progress, back in a bit,” Q told them blithely, and sauntered away, leaving the pair of them to smile like it was their first meeting, like reclaiming something lost.


	108. Chapter 108

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A serious request, of sorts: Alec is in deep cover for the whole of Skyfall and so doesn’t know anything that happened until he gets back a few weeks later. Could you write his and James’s reunion? No James/Alec (or even 00Q), just friends trying to adjust to their new world? Thanks! – anon

Bond was expecting the knock on the door. Honestly, it had been expected for the last couple of hours, but Medical took their time, and after so long there was no particular rush.

Alec looked at him. Looked up and down, taking him in, and proffered a bottle of vodka. “Eve told me the basics.”

“Good,” Bond replied, and stood back to let Alec in.

Nine months. Alec had been gone nine months, in a mission some had expected he would never return from. Deep cover missions always stood a higher than usual chance of death – cover blown, agents tortured for information, no way of contacting for extraction – and yet, Bond wasn’t surprised Alec had pulled through.

Alec, as he always had, chucked himself onto his usual armchair. “Still grieving?”

Bond couldn’t help but crack a small smile. “I don’t grieve, you should know me better than that.”

Alec raised an eyebrow. “Precisely, so don’t fuck about – I know. Never lie to me again.”

“Yes.” Bond replied, without blanching. Alec nodded, opened the vodka, and simply drank from the bottle. “Good to know your table manners have remained intact.”

For as long as Bond could remember, Alec had mastered the art of smiling. Regardless of circumstance, he smiled with an ease that Bond found somehow extraordinary.  “I’ve been drinking like this for a while now.”

“Welcome back to England: we use glasses. Success?”  
“Success,” Alec confirmed. “Far worse when back on home soil. What do you reckon to the new Q?”

The disdain was palpable. Bond snorted. “My thoughts exactly, but he seems decent enough – proved himself a few times now/”

“Still a kid.”

“Yes, but a talented one,” Bond returned easily, retrieving the vodka and taking a healthy slug. “Anyway. Lose anybody decent?”

Alec shrugged. “Beautiful women and textbook villains. Come home to find M dead, Boothroyd dead, and Saskia – one of the techs, I liked her, nice girl. Dead in the original explosion.”

Bond nodded, a little tiredly. “Not much could be done.”

“And Skyfall?”

Bond’s shudder was noticeable, a rolling thing up the curve of his spine. “Too many memories,” he said simply, and took another shot. “Gone now. It’s easier. Nothing left to remind me.”

Alec snagged back the vodka, and raised it in a toast. “To being alone.”

Bond snorted. “A cheerful prospect.”

“An honest one,” Alec returned. “A toast?”

“A toast,” Bond nodded, and watched Alec take another drink, the pair prepared to lose the night (the memories) in an alcoholic haze.


	109. Chapter 109

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello, darlings! I sure hope it’s okay to send more than a single prompt in a rather short amount of time? Because, see, I had this idea, and I think you’d do it wonderfully! How about a Bond/Doctor Who cross, where Q is the Quartermaster, a Time Lord? Maybe Bond is like Jack, or just Q’s companion? My first born for the Doctor not being aware that Q’s alive, until Q and Bond turn up, rescuing the Doctor and companion? I’ll leave it to you which Doctor! – isauntervaguelydownwards

In much the same way as the Doctor had worked for UNIT, Q had opted to work for MI6; they needed somebody of his ilk, and while he really shouldn’t have thrown his lot in with just the UK, he spent an inordinately large amount of time there and was waiting – very casually, it had to be said – for the Doctor to turn up.

Q was very, very lonely.

True, he had Bond, the very best companion one could wish for: his partner in every regard but, of course, also inevitably going to die long before Q had a chance to truly live a life with him. Humans were so short, so fragile in the scheme of things, and Q couldn’t bear being lonely any more.

Then, he heard the Doctor’s TARDIS.

The moron never used the handbrake. Q could hear it from the next continent, and certainly could sense – smell – the Time Lord in the air, the Gallifreyan, the only other one of his kind.

(barring maybe a couple. It wasn’t just the Doctor who had managed to escape the War).

Q slid his way into the bunker, where he could sense the Doctor, and whatever had attracted him there; it was a strange edge in the air, earthed metal.

Of course, the Doctor had about forty guns pointed at him. Q and Bond dispatched the lot in less than two minutes and then faced the Doctor with shit-eating grins. “Hello, Doctor. It’s been a while.”

The Doctor gaped.

Gaped a bit more.

His face was oddly pale. Q should have seen it coming; the Doctor had always been more prone to sadness, to loneliness, than any other the Quartermaster had known. He had survived through the known art of loneliness, something Q could handle.

The Doctor needed people like humans needed oxygen.

“Quartermaster?”

“Doctor,” Q replied lightly. “Hug?”

The Doctor barely made it the few steps, sweeping Q into a bone-crushing embrace before abruptly stepping back. “How.  _How_.”

“I can’t explain right now – you have a TARDIS?”

The Doctor’s eyebrows furrowed slightly. “Do you not?”

Q’s smile was sad and grieving. “She’s lonely, she needed somebody. Company. I wasn’t enough, I managed to find somebody who… well. I like it here, I was waiting for you, actually. So the TARDIS remained fairly quiet and she… she’s fine, but she just needs some time, some quiet. I’m hoping yours will… I hope she can be brought back. I miss her.”

Abruptly, the Doctor grinned. “This must be your ‘someone’,” he smiled. “Hello.”

“Hello,” Bond replied, a dash warily. “Name’s Bond. James Bond.”

The Doctor grinned, and extended a hand. “Perfect. Well now, Bond James Bond, shall we catch up a bit?”

“I’ll take you back to mine, if you’ll let me fly her?”

“If she’ll let you fly her, you mean,” the Doctor grinned, all his soul and self palpably overjoyed: he’d finally found somebody,  _finally_ was home.


	110. Chapter 110

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey, could you write this Stony prompt please? There are only two things Steve can’t do, give up in a fight and lie convincingly. Tony’s life gets put in danger and he is forced to do both or Tony will be killed. Whether there’s a happy ending or not is up to you. Thank you. Xx – anon

There had been a rumour, circulated by god only knew who, that Captain America had a weakness to a rare African poison. This was, of course, completely fictitious. Unfortunately his captors thought otherwise and had injected him with the damn stuff. It did little more than leave a mild green tinge where it had entered his skin.

Tony was chained to a wall on his left, body spread painfully taut against the stone. There was a pistol pressed against his forehead.

“Let’s see you fight like this eh?” a second captor asked, putting up a rough boxing guard against Steve. “See you fight like a real man.”

His only hope was to distract them. Throw the fight, let them assume he was harmless and that the drug had worked. That would take the focus off him and allow him to grab Tony and escape.

This meant acting. Shit

So. They were expecting weak-as-a-kitten Steve, practically the pre-serum Steve. He could almost remember how it felt, to be that weak, to have barely managed a push-up; really, it was fairly humiliating to have to pretend. Especially as – with a changed body – he had learnt an incredible amount of fighting styles and types, had practised them extensively, and even when weakened he still had enough knowledge to pose a fairly substantial threat.

As it was, he wasn’t even vaguely weakened.

Tony, meanwhile, was rapidly approaching a panic attack. A dark cell with handcuffs and imminent threat to life, and Tony’s PTSD had kicked in despite everybody’s best efforts to the contrary. “I fight you, you leave him alone,” Steve bartered, deliberately making his voice sound higher, weaker.

The man opposite snorted, and threw a punch; Steve moved, quicker than he should have been able to, dodging it.

He realised, and continued the movement into a feigned misbalance, falling to the floor.

Both the antagonists were laughing at him, but laughing was alright; it meant Tony was safer, they were distracted. “Get up.”

Steve struggled upwards, while Tony quite literally hyperventilated; doubtless, the prospect of Steve _actually_ being as weak as he was portraying was very difficult to handle while a gun was still digging into his head.

“Fight me, you pathetic fuck.”

Steve saw red, and delivered what (he thought) was a pulled punch.

The force was enough to make the man stagger back, and Steve cursed himself for a fool: he’d shown his hand. He had just managed to prove he had strength, a  _lot_  of strength, hadn’t managed it well enough and Steve could see Tony thinking the precise same thing.

“ _Fuck_.”

Steve’s punch had drawn blood. “Get back or I shoot,” the second man warned, without hesitation, priming the shot while Tony went a little bit whiter. “ _Now_.”

The  _bang_  echoed through the cell, and Steve couldn’t breathe.


	111. Chapter 111

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I was just wondering if you do Torchwood! It’s a sign! Now that the question has been answered, I’ll have to request some! So I’m thinking Torchwood/Sherlock Crossover (because we get to call it Sherwood!). Owen is my favourite character from Torchwood and he’s a doctor, so obviously he must know John :-) I would love to see him and Sherlock snarking away. Thank you so so much! – anon

“And look who it is,” Owen smirked.

John took one look at him, and snorted. “And there was me thinking I’d got shot of you,” he grinned, and extended a hand towards Doctor Owen Harper, Torchwood employee and one of the bright young things John had been rotated onto looking after while still working at Barts. “How are you?”

“Fucking brilliant, thanks,” Owen sniped. To be fair, the man was covered from head to toe in viscous black blood. It merited the sarcasm. “Ain’t you supposed to be out with the army?”

“Invalided, shot in the shoulder.”

Owen glanced up, expression shifting very slightly. “Shit.”

“You? Here cutting up aliens?”

John had had a very long day. Sherlock had begun with the ‘aliens are real’ pitch, introduced Mycroft into the equation with an assignment (and that was a terrifying prospect in and of itself), rounded it up with a long trip to Cardiff wherein Sherlock endeavoured to explain about the existence of space-time rift in Cardiff and they were about to meet an alien-crime fighting type of outfit that lived under the Cardiff Plass.

Altogether, he’d had better days.

But, it was nice to see Owen again. John was managing, just about, to keep very much on top of things. Living with Sherlock had forced him to gain a type of base-level stoicism that buoyed him up through the seriously bizarre and allowed him to more or less accept it (at least until he was at liberty to have a small breakdown).

“You like the place?” Owen asked casually. “Come one, let me show you the real fun.”

Owen led John to the top of the stairs, made a sweeping gesture, presenting the eight-foot dead purple alien that was lying on the gurney in their medical area.

John blinked. “That’s… an alien.”

“Well noticed,” Owen smirked. “This is what I do. You’re…”

“Making sure this one doesn’t accidently die,” John replied simply. “Full time bloody occupation. And I do locum work as a GP. Bit dull, in comparison.”

Owen turned to Jack. “We could do with a back-up medic?” he suggested; John snorted with laughter. “Oi, not such a bad idea, just going back to war for you…”

“… and I like to insinuate myself into new places, learn the new rhythms, new heartbeats,” Sherlock was pontificating in a very Jack Harkness-like manner. “John. We’re staying.”

John looked sharply at Sherlock. “We’re what?”

Jack was laughing his most charming laugh. “Welcome to Torchwood, Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson. Let’s have some fun, right?”

“Fun. Yes,” John muttered, as Owen managed to slide open a still rather angry artery on the dead creature, and swore as viscous green blood spattered across his coat.


	112. Chapter 112

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Sorry to bother you but ages and aaaaaaages ago I sent a Steve/Tony bodyswap prompt? It was probably eaten by tumblr, or lost among all your other prompts. ily guys! Xx – anon

“The  _muscle_ ,” Tony whistled. “This is… I can’t move my arms, the muscle’s in the way, everything’s hard…”

“Is it now?”

Tony shot Clint a sharp look, one that just didn’t quite work on Steve’s face. That was  _his_  preserve, innuendo, but there was something weird about using Steve to make jokes of that nature because good _god_  the man was all glittery sparkly clean Captain America and Tony didn’t quite want to besmirch the man’s good name.

Steve hadn’t really moved much. As though any move would confirm it even more, prove that he was in Tony Stark’s body. “You… your heart…”

“Yep, it feels weird,” Tony nodded, still flexing muscles. “Sorry about that.”

Steve was eerily still, in Tony’s body. “I don’t want to break it.”

Tony snorted. Again, Tony’s expressions were unbelievably weird on Steve’s face. “You’d better not, I don’t want to die… wait, hang on. Who’d die? Which of us would die if you killed my body? Will I be stuck as muscleman forever?!”

“We’re going to fix it,” Bruce reminded them. “We’ll find out what did it, and reverse it. Tony, I need your help.”

Tony looked down at himself, still in amused shock, briefly grabbing at his groin and making a rather curious noise. “Alright then, campers, we’re off to the labs.”

“And what do I do?”

“You’re coming with,” Tony told Steve brightly. “Clint, Tash? Up to you.”

Natasha was barely suppressing her smirk. “I’m staying. I want to see what happens.”

Steve looked at her with utter loathing. Unsurprisingly, Tony’s face suited it; he looked a little more serial killer than he would have done in his own body, but that wasn’t too problematic.

“When I find out whose fault this is…”

Thor burst into the room. Of course he did. Just at the most inopportune moment.

“Big fella, hi,” Tony grinned.

“Stark, stop it.”

Thor looked between the two of them, blinked. “There is something strange here.”

“No shit.”

It was one of the few times Thor had ever heard Steve swear. “Captain, what is…”

“Stark and I have switched bodies.”

Thor looked between them once again.

He burst into hearty, robust laughter. “This is an old trick,” he smiled. “I have many memories from Asgard, my childhood – Loki was the best trickster, knew how to manipulate one personality to another form…”

“… this is Loki?” Clint followed up, looking just a little bit white.

“Perhaps,” Thor nodded, oblivious to Clint’s nervousness. “But he cannot reach his powers to here. We must find how. Your species are not supposed to experiment in this manner…”

“Switching us back is the priority.”

“Not enjoying things over there?” Tony asked acerbically. “I have a  _gorgeous_  body, I’ll have you know. Wasted on you, Cap.”

Steve raised an eyebrow.

Tony grinned. “Hell yes, I’m handsome.”

“You’re a nightmare,” Bruce muttered. “Labs. Now. Thor, if you have any ideas…?”

“I shall begin my searching this instant,” Thor nodded formally. “Good morrow, Avengers. My return will be imminent.”

He disappeared out the door again. Everybody watched him go with the usual vaguely bemused expressions that came with Thor being… Thor-like.

“Labs,” Bruce said again, looking a little tired already, “or I’ll drag you there. Come on.”

Tony followed cheerily enough. Steve was still terrified at accidently doing something to Tony’s shockingly weak human body with a piece of bloody  _metal_  in his chest that felt indescribably weird.

“Here we go,” he muttered, and carefully began walking after Tony and Bruce, hilariously tentative.

(Clint filmed it).


	113. Chapter 113

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alright. I’ve got a crack prompt for you. James goes to America for a mission and finds Felix has been promoted to strictly administrative duty. In his place are a tag team of Kim possible and Ron stoppable. Meanwhile in q-branch, q gets hacked by some nerd in his attic named ‘wade’ – anon

Felix looked less than impressed with the change of circumstance. “… and I’m bored out of my mind, these  _kids_  think they know what they’re doing…”

_Beep beep beep-beep_

“So what’s the sitch?”

Felix’s eyes narrowed. “And there we have them.”

“Have what?” Bond asked, rather confused; Felix nodded at the open door.

A girl with long red hair was stood, speaking rapidly into her phone. She looked no longer than sixteen. “You’re going to need to explain…”

“The CIA apparently employ kids these days.”

“What’ve we got?”

Another child – male, this time, with floppy hair and what looked uncannily like a naked mole rat – appeared in the doorway, waving awkwardly at Felix and eyeing Bond with badly concealed nervousness. “Hi.”

“… hi,” Bond returned uncertainly. He had never felt quite so out of place. Felix looked exactly the same.

This was the CIA. These were supposed to be  _adults_.

Bond’s phone buzzed once, twice. Efficient and quiet. The girl was still on the phone, as Bond lifted his own to his ear. “Yes?”

“I’ve been hacked by somebody in your vicinity. I don’t know how or why, but I’m pissed off as hell and I need positive ID’s of any hackers in the CIA.”

“Dealing with it. Felix, any new computer techs turning up out of nowhere?”

“Do you mean Wade?”

Felix and Bond looked to the boy in dangerous unison. He looked awkwardly terrified. The mole rat seemed to have more confidence than he did. “Wade?” Bond repeated.

The girl turned, and whacked him around the back of the head. “Ron, what’ve you done? Hi Felix. And you’re James Bond.”

“Who is ‘Wade’?” Q continued to hiss into Bond’s ear. “What the  _hell_  is going on over there?”

“And you two are…?”

“Kim Possible,” the girl announced, extending a hand to Bond and shaking it comfortably, a stark contrast to the terrified boy next to her. “And this is Ron Stoppable. Wade is our tech support.

“You have  _Kim Possible_?” Q asked with palpable shock. “Jesus fuck, Bond, what on earth are they doing in the CIA?”

“Excellent question.”

Bond looked them up and down. Looked to Felix. Felix just shrugged, looking rather helpless and very sorry for himself. “They’re assets,” he managed. “Apparently.”

“ _Who is Wade??_ ” Q was screeching, loud enough for Bond to need to hold the phone about a foot away from his ear. “ _BOND_.”

Kim grabbed her phone, and rang a number. “Wade, whatever you’ve done to MI6, stop it. Their quartermaster is pissed. Yeah, we’re on it.”

She hung up, and smiled at Bond with all the radiant confidence in the world. “Should have sorted it.”

“Yes. I’ll call you back, Bond, and you can tell me what the hell is going on over there.”

“I’ll do my best,” Bond replied, a touch weakly, as Felix just buried his head in his hands, muttering darkly over sheets and sheets of paper.


	114. Chapter 114

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Twisted idea but I’ve been listening to Almost lover by A fine frenzy, and it makes me think about Q and Silva. Q mourning Silva after Skyfall and feeling betrayed but can’t express for fear of someone knowing they had a thing? – anon

Q sat back from the keyboard, letting out a slightly hitched breath that Tanner didn’t seem to notice, or assumed was relief.

It was over. Raoul Silva had been dispatched, the assault on MI6 was over, Bond was alive (and M was not, but that would be considered far later) and now they could regroup and start again.

Raoul Silva was dead.

Tiago Rodriguez was too, but Q had mourned him years ago.

Q closed his eyes, and kept his breathing steady. It was a success, theoretically. MI6 had won. Q was going to be held up as a hero, despite his idiocy in letting Silva into the systems in the first place. Q had caused his death.

Raoul had caused the death of his predecessor, his friends. He had betrayed Q completely, unapologetically, had broken apart Q’s memories of a man he had loved and replaced the warmth of Tiago’s touch with the acid-wrecked face of a stranger called Raoul.

“ _And look what’s become of you_ ”

Q had disconnected the cameras briefly, just to have a moment with him. Less than five minutes, easily missed, but he  _needed_  that moment. Tiago ( _Raoul_ ) looking at him with a quiet but pleasured disbelief.

“ _Clever boy. I always knew you would be extraordinary_.”

Q hated him and loved him in equal and awful measure.

“ _Don’t mourn for me_.”

There was nothing Q could do. Raoul had done the worst thing possible, betrayed Q not merely in the deaths of his colleagues or even the death of M, nothing was quite as cruel as his taunting hack-job into MI6’s systems.

Raoul had  _mocked_  him. Used his old nickname and exploited the naïve belief that Raoul would never do something as crude as hack him. Mocked him, and left him without explanation, then continued his decimation of MI6.

Q wondered whether he was supposed to be dead.

Certainly, Raoul was. He had been suicidal from the outset. Tiago was so far gone that there was no point left, but it hadn’t stopped Q praying that all of it could be resolved and Tiago could come home, remember how to live again (prison notwithstanding) but not die so pointlessly along with the woman he blamed for everything.

The sense of loss was profound and crippling.

“ _Goodbye, Q._ ”

Q waited until Tanner had disappeared, until he was alone, to allow stray tears to fall without acknowledgement, mourning a memory.


End file.
